


The Prince No One Wanted

by Agatho



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire & Related Fandoms, A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-08-11
Updated: 2017-08-26
Packaged: 2018-12-13 22:26:34
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 8
Words: 25,577
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11769657
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Agatho/pseuds/Agatho
Summary: Robert's Rebellion ended in an uneven victory for the Iron Throne, and in the years since an uneasy peace has reigned. Now, as septons and lords clash in the Vale, King Rhaegar rides north to treat with his most unruly vassal. Having discovered his son's survival, the king reveals that the Bastard of Winterfell is anything but, and offers him a role in the Song of Ice and Fire.





	1. I. The Bastard of Winterfell

**Author's Note:**

> Hey all! So this is something I've been working on over at AH.com and it was suggested I post it here. The story will be much the same as it is there, though I will fix any typos I find before I cross-post. There are twenty or so chapters that have already been written that I'll be posting sporadically throughout the week. I hope you all enjoy it and feel free to leave a review!

**The Bastard of Winterfell**

Jon Snow was forced to hang back and watch as his father returned with the King. Lady Catelyn did not want him to be seen with Lord Stark's trueborn children. Relations between the North and King's Landing were strained as it was, she had said, and it would do no good to insult the King by presenting him with a bastard. So Jon stood on one of the balconies overlooking Winterfell's main courtyard along with the men at arms and the servants and the scullery maids as the gates of the ancient castle creaked open and Lord Stark entered alongside his liege lord and the royal retinue.

Not that his father was without retainers. When Lord Eddard had heard that the king was coming to Winterfell he rode out to meet him at Moat Cailin with half the strength of the North. The sigils and arms of Umbers and Manderlys and Dustins and Ryswells could all be seen pouring through the gate along with those of the King and his wife. The wolf had brought his pack, every last one of them baring their teeth. It sent a clear message. Jon's father would allow the King's presence in his keep, in his demesne, and in his  _kingdom_ , for lack of a better word, for although Jon could not remember a time when things were different he had been told by Maester Luwin that the North had almost become a realm unto itself after the Rebellion, but he would never be welcome in any of them.

In a way, Jon was glad that he wouldn't have to deal with any of this for much longer. He had spoken to his uncle Benjen about joining the Night's Watch, and he had been told that blood and the circumstances of one's birth mattered little at the Wall. His uncle had told him that bastards and the sons of smallfolk had risen to be First Steward, First Ranger, and even Lord Commander if they proved themselves worthy. It would be cold and lonely there, Benjen had warned him, but Jon was a Stark by blood if not by name, and harsh winters were something he was more than ready for. And as for loneliness, Jon doubted his uncle could truly appreciate the isolation of being a bastard in the halls of one's own father, hated by the Lady of the Castle and shunned even by some of the servants. Whatever kindness he might have received, Jon knew he did not belong. He was ready to go.

Well, almost ready. The only reason he waited here, the only reason he had not packed, said his goodbyes, and rode north as his father rode south was because Lord Eddard had finally relented. Something about his calling the banners and marching to Moat Cailin had caused the icy front he put up whenever the subject of Jon's mother was discussed to thaw. He had promised to tell Jon everything about his mother when he returned, but something his father had said Jon had found very confusing.  _Gods be good, we'll be able to discuss it alone._

Turning his attention back to the courtyard he could see his father dismount and take his place beside his wife and trueborn children. Lord Eddard noticed Jon's absence and looked around for him. When their eyes met, it pained Jon to realize that the look in his father's eyes was one of relief.  _He really doesn't want me beside him_ , thought Jon. He almost wanted to leave, but curiosity held him there. He had never seen a king before, and unless his wildest fantasies about slaying a King-beyond-the-Wall came true he doubted he would have the chance to do so again.

The first of the King's retinue to dismount was no doubt Ser Barristan Selmy, the knight of the Kingsguard who had been chosen to accompany the royal family on their long trek north. He was aged, to be true, but Jon had heard Bran say that the Kingsguard were the finest knights in all the Realm, and there was nothing about the way Ser Barristan carried himself that made him believe otherwise. He dismounted before the king he was sworn to protect, and then stepped over to the wheelhouse that had entered through the gate to help the royal family out and into the courtyard.

Jon could not help but look with awe at the Queen as she descended the steps. Cersei Lannister was as beautiful as everyone said, with long golden hair and piercing emerald eyes that appraised everything before her in a somewhat haughty but nonetheless regal manner. She shepherded her children out as well, with whom Jon was far less impressed. Truth be told, he could not even remember their names. Not that he would need to anyway. As a man of the Night's Watch, he would serve the Realm, not any one king or his issue. He had been told that the King had other children by his first wife, ahead of Cersei's in the line of succession, but he did not see them. They would be roughly his and Robb's age by now. Their father probably wanted them to have some practice in ruling the Realm, which is why he left them in King's Landing.

With that Jon looked to the King. He dismounted his black destrier gracefully, removing the dragon-winged helm upon his head and revealing a handsome face with all the features of Valyrian nobility, though clearly aged and worn from the stress of holding the Seven Kingdoms together. Well, six kingdoms, according to Robb. He never failed to remind Jon of how their father had gotten away with not paying tithes to King's Landing by directly paying off the Crown's debt to the Iron Bank, or how he only called the banners when the North itself was threatened, refusing the King's summons until Euron Greyjoy had been foolish enough to raid the Stony Shore. Their father was the Stark of Winterfell, Robb had said, and no matter what had happened south of the Neck among the First Men his word was law. Jon had believed it when he was young, and almost believed it now as he saw King Rhaegar's small retinue surrounded by angry, hostile Northmen.

But the bread and salt were offered all the same. The King was welcomed as a guest in his father's hall, despite everything he had done. It might have been too much for his brother but Jon was not surprised. Jon perhaps lacked the head for tactics that Robb had, but he knew the North did not have the men to go to war against the entire South, even if half the Southron troops would probably catch cold and die at the mere sight of a summer snow. That's why denying the King the right to travel in what were technically his own lands was so perilous. But the King risked much by coming here, for Maester Luwin had told him the only thing that kept the peace between the Iron Throne and the North was an unspoken agreement between King Rhaegar and his father. The King would stay out of the North's business, and Lord Eddard would return the favor.

"Your Grace," said Jon's father icily. "We welcome you to Winterfell." The King arched an eyebrow at this, the Queen almost scoffed, and Jon himself had to admit he was surprised by his father's choice of words. He had heard Sansa go over the courtly courtesies of a royal visit so many times he could remember almost all of them. She had prattled on about how when the King arrived Lord Eddard would bow, offer him Ice and say "Your Grace, Winterfell is yours." But that was not what happened. After partaking of the bread and salt the King made his reply.

"We thank you for your hospitality, Lord Eddard." The King's voice was even and courtly, if he was perturbed there was not the slightest hint of it in his tone. He looked over the trueborn children with melancholy and turned back to Jon's father. "Are these your children?"

"Yes, Your Grace," Lord Eddard replied. "Allow me to present my eldest, Robb, my second and third sons, Bran and Rickon, and my two daughters, Sansa and Arya." Each bowed or curtsied as Jon imagined he would have had to were he allowed down there with them, each murmuring 'Your Grace' politely and audibly. Rhaegar looked over each of them, but he seemed dissatisfied.

"And the Bastard of Winterfell?"

"I did not think it appropriate to present a child of low birth to Your Grace," interjected Lady Catelyn. "Please, let us show you to your chambers, I'm sure you would like some rest after—"

"Where is  _my son_ , Lord Eddard?" The King seemed to lose a great deal of his composure. Gasps and looks of confusion rippled across the courtyard. Lady Catelyn looked at Jon's father with an utter lack of comprehension, and Queen Cersei did the same to the King. "Did you really think you could keep him from me forever? Did you honestly believe I wouldn't find out?"

"This is not how we agreed to do this," Lord Eddard spat. "Jon, get down here!" shouted his father, all courtly courtesy gone from his voice. Jon could barely believe what he was hearing.  _My son_? What could King Rhaegar possibly mean by that? He hurried down and entered the courtyard, standing by his father, who put his hand on Jon's shoulder reassuringly.

"I knew I wouldn't have to," Lord Eddard told the King. "Jon's nearly a man grown and can make his own decisions. In less than a week's time he intends to join the Night's Watch." It was then that the King turned his full attention towards Jon. His gaze was withering and thorough, as if he was trying to pick apart and dissect every part of Jon, to stare into his very soul.

"They call you Jon?" he asked, frustration evident in his voice.

"Y-yes, Your Grace," Jon stammered back. The King looked back at Jon's father.

"Lyanna and I had agreed upon Jaehaerys."

"You left my sister in no state to name him, Your Grace." Jon's father replied.

"Ned, what is he talking about?" asked Lady Catelyn. The King laughed.

"You never even told your own wife?" The King could not help but reveal his disdain. "How many years did she suffer thinking you had dishonored her, when the boy wasn't even yours?"

"Father?" Jon looked at Lord Eddard desperately. He had so many questions, but they all seemed to stick in his throat. He couldn't think of anything else to say.

"I promised you we'd speak of your mother when I returned," Lord Eddard told him, "because I knew, one way or another, that we would have to. I had hoped it wouldn't have to be like this."

"As you said, Lord Eddard, the boy is nearly a man grown and can make his own decisions. Perhaps it would be better if he knew the truth before he did."

"Father, what's going on?" begged Jon. Everything seemed wrong. He needed to know what was happening.

"That man may have raised you, boy, but he is not your father," the King told him. "Your mother was his sister, and Lord Stark is far too honorable to have committed incest." The King cast a sideways glance at Cersei that would have gone unnoticed had she not huffed indignantly at the words.

_His sister?_ Jon thought.  _Aunt Lyanna? But King Rhaegar abducted and raped her. That would mean…_

"Yes, boy," the King pronounced in the same tone as he might use to pass judgment on a disloyal vassal. "I am your father."

_No,_  thought Jon.  _That's not true. That's impossible._

"My love," interjected the Queen, "Surely we have traveled so far for matters of far greater importance than this. Allow yourself some rest and we can return to the subject of the bastard—"

"He is no bastard," said the King. "Kings have taken more than one wife before, and Lyanna and I were wed before a Heart Tree. By your own law, Lord Eddard, she was mine." The Queen looked horrified by this, and even as confused as Jon was it was not hard to see why. If John were no bastard he would be ahead of all of her children in the line of succession. Should some misfortune befall Prince Aegon he would be the heir to the Iron Throne.

"I grow weary of this," the King went on. "Lord Eddard, have your servants show me to my chambers. We will have much to discuss after my party and I finally get some rest." Slowly he turned his attention back towards Jon.

"Jaehaerys, I promised your mother I would let you foster at Winterfell and I have fulfilled my oath. I could have simply ordered you south, but your uncle is right. You are nearly a man grown and can make your own decisions. By tomorrow evening I would know what you wish." With that the King strode off behind one of the castle's servants, with a mortified Queen and her children in tow. Jon looked to Lord Eddard, the man who for so many years he had called father, for some sign of reassurance, for something that might show that this was all an elaborate mummer's farce. He received nothing of the sort.

"I'm sorry, Jon," was all his uncle could say. Jon ran out of the courtyard, barely registering Arya and Robb and Bran and Rickon shouting his name. He ran into his chambers and shut the door, pulling the bolt forward so that none could enter. There was supposed to be a feast tonight in honor of the King's—of his father's arrival. He did not know if he would be in attendance. Not until he had made his decision.


	2. II. Eddard

**Eddard**

Ned found himself sitting in his solar, staring at the man he hated most in all the world. If Rhaegar Targaryen was uncomfortable being alone with the Lord of Winterfell, Ned could not see it. The King sipped his wine pensively and looked around at the room's sparse decorations. His voice was low and soft, but the tension in the air made it seem as though it shattered the silence like a pick striking ice.

"Good vintage," he said flatly.

"We prefer ale in the North, Your Grace." A long pause followed.

"How much longer do you think he will keep us waiting? Perhaps I should call for my—"

"I'm in no mood for music, Your Grace." Those were the words Eddard said. What he wanted to say was  _if you bring that bloody harp in here I'll break it over your fucking head._

"Perhaps at the feast, then." Another long pause followed, one which made it harder and harder for Ned to stand on ceremony. Finally, he spoke.

"You violated our agreement," he told the King.

"And who violated it first, Lord Eddard?" Rhaegar replied, sounding somewhat amused. "We promised to stay out of each other's affairs, and you took what was mine."

"I made a promise to Lyanna." Ned didn't raise his voice, but he didn't need to. Like any dishonorable Southron Rhaegar had an appreciation for subtleties.

"The woman was delirious. She had no right—"

"She had every right. You weren't there."

"I won't apologize for doing what was needed."

"And abducting my sister, forcing her into a marriage bed and getting her with child, I suppose that was needed as well?" They had had this conversation once before, although Ned had said nothing about Jon the first time. He was dissatisfied with Rhaegar's answer then, just as he knew he would be now.

"For reasons I fear you will not understand even now, yes it was, though I find it amusing that you of all people believe your sister could have been forced into anything. But think of what you're saying, Lord Eddard. Would you have really preferred that the boy never be born at all?" Rhaegar had him there. So much suffering, so much destruction had been caused by Rhaegar and Lyanna's decision to run away together. No one man's life, no matter how precious or important it would prove to be, would ever be able to make up for it. But he had come to love Jon as a son. Had it been him and not the King who had asked him that question, Eddard would have said no. Instead, he stayed silent, unwilling to give Rhaegar the pleasure of victory.

"But all this is in the past," Rhaegar continued. "We must put it aside, for the boy's sake and for our own. Winter is coming, Lord Eddard." That was it. Ned rose to his feet in rage at hearing his own family's words turned upon him, used as a Southron trick to hide half-truths and avoid plain talk.

"I should have killed you in the Marches when I had the chance!" The words hung like a sword between the two men, and Eddard regretted saying them immediately. But part of him was glad he had. Rhaegar, for his part, allowed himself a small smile, as if he were savoring the victory that came with getting a rise out of the famously cold Lord Paramount of the North.

"I was in your power, true, but what would have happened if you had?" he mused. "The Dornishmen were coming through the Prince's Pass, the Tyrells were regrouping but a few days' march away, and the lion banner flew everywhere from Kayce to King's Landing. You would not have returned home alive, and the best of the North would have died with you. What would have become of the lands you love so dearly? What would have become of your son?"

"At least I care for my sons." For a moment Ned managed to calm himself, but he knew Rhaegar could still see his anger. The uncharacteristic fire had once again simmered down to cold hatred.

"And for the sons of others, even when they do not wish it."

"I saved Jon from the South! I saved him from vipers and lions and dragons who all had a reason to want him dead. I saved him from being a living reminder of everything wrong with you and your rule! I gave him a home where he was safe, where he was loved, where he might learn what it means to be honorable!"

"And in doing so you tried rob Jaehaerys of his destiny!" Now it was Rhaegar's turn to rise. He was not as tall as Ned, but his eyes burned with the mad fire of his house as he met his vassal's gaze. "You tore him from the arms of his family and stripped him of everything he was so he could live as an outcast in the keep of a man who only pretended to be his father! You've kept up this mummer's farce far too long to speak of honor, Lord Eddard."

"And how long have you known?" Ned shot back. "How long did you let me keep this up without so much as a word? If what I did was so terrible, why did you do nothing?!"

"Because you weren't the only one who made a promise to Lyanna!" Rhaegar lunged forward, but stopped himself before he came to grips with Ned. Eddard had thrown up his arms in defense, but lowered them slowly as he realized that the King would not strike him. Rhaegar's normally smooth silver-blonde hair looked tangled and disheveled, and the fire in his eyes burned with more intensity than Eddard had seen in any man, even in the heat of battle.  _This must be what Aerys looked like near the end_ , thought Eddard. But slowly, as the King stared at his own reflection in Ned's eyes, he began to calm himself.  _He sees what he is becoming, and he doesn't like it._

"And whatever nonsense you may have told yourself to justify your theft of my son, you were right about one thing," he went on. "He is safe here, and I cannot afford to lose him. He will have too important a role to play in what is to come."  _Just when I thought he was beginning to act like a father_ , thought Ned. And then it dawned on him.

"Shouldn't Jon be here by now?" Rhaegar gave him a look that showed he had come to the same conclusion.

"I have guards posted at the doors and a man watching the windows," Ned added. "If he weren't in his room, I would know about it."

"And I sent Ser Barristan to retrieve him some time ago. Had he failed I doubtless would have been informed."

"I'll go talk to him," Ned told the King, but as he turned to leave the solar Rhaegar placed a hand on his shoulder.

"Lord Eddard, wait." Rhaegar looked at him with an expression Ned couldn't place. It was almost pleading. "The boy needs his father." Ned pulled away from the King without being too rude or abrupt.

"That he does, Your Grace, but right now that means the man who raised him." With that Ned took his leave of the King and followed a path he knew well, following the hallways and passages of Winterfell until he reached Jon's room. Every servant or bannerman he passed eyed him nervously, as if they did not know what to think of him.  _What has this done to my legacy?_  He thought.  _Will men still follow me after this?_

Finally he reached the room of the boy he once called his own. His guards were standing, silent and ready, as an old man in ornate armor and a white cloak banged against the door.

"Your Grace, you have been summoned by the King!" cried an exasperated Ser Barristan.

"I'm not coming out!" cried a muffled voice from behind the door.

"Your father has ordered that you attend him in Lord Stark's solar. There is much that must be discussed before we return to the capital, Your Grace!"

"Stop calling me that!"

"I can take it from here, Ser Barristan," Ned told him as his men stood at attention. He bid them to be at ease and saw a look of relief spread over Ser Barristan's wizened features.

"The Knights of the Kingsguard are not known to run from a fight," he said, "but I know when I am outmatched. Do your worst, Lord Eddard."

"Jon, open up! It's your…" Ned found the word 'father' caught in his throat. "…It's me."

"Go away! If I won't leave my chambers for the King, what makes you think I'd do it for you,  _Lord Eddard_?" Being called by his title took Ned aback, but as much as it hurt him he understood. He wasn't the only one who had a hard time using the word 'father.'

"You don't have to come out, Jon. You don't even have to let me in. Just listen, please." Silence. Eddard took that as a good sign.

"I know you must be confused. I know I may not understand how you feel. But I also know you must have questions. Mayhaps the King and I can answer them. You don't have to say anything right now, but please, think on what I have said. Things are bad now, but they will not get better until you understand who you are and what you want, and you cannot do that if you never leave your chambers. I'll be waiting out here for you when you're ready." With that Ned pushed up against the wall opposite the door and slumped into a seated position on the floor. He waved the guards off; he was more than capable of watching the boy. He saw Ser Barristan was still standing there, taking up a post vacated by his own bannermen. Ned shot him a quizzical look, which caused the old knight to smile.

"The king has given me a charge, Lord Eddard. One way or another, I will see it through." And so they waited for what seemed like hours but was probably far shorter than that. Ned thought he heard a  _thump_  come from inside the room.  _Perhaps the boy knocked something over in a fit of rage_ , Ned thought.  _It may be a while before he's ready._  He continued to wait, but sooner than Ned had expected he heard the door being unbarred. As it swung open he saw John, Arya and Bran emerge from the room. Scarcely able to contain his shock, he rose to his feet and looked to his children in a way that demanded an explanation.

"Robb distracted the man watching the window while we climbed in," Arya, the better liar of the two, said innocently.  _That explains Bran, but not her._  Ned decided he would have the chambers searched for secret passageways later.

"We just wanted Jon to know that no matter what happens, he's still our brother," Bran blurted out. Ned smiled at this, but it also dawned on him that that meant Jon had not left his room because of anything he had said. He looked into the boy's eyes and could see the two of them were a long way from any sort of reconciliation.

"I'm ready, Lord Eddard," Jon said.

"Jon, you don't have to call me that if you don't want," Ned replied crestfallen.

"Then I'm not sure what to call you." There was a long pause that was only interrupted by the soft padding of feet as the white dire wolf pup approached his master.  _Gods they grow fast._

"Can Ghost come too?" Jon asked. Eddard thought for a moment, but nodded his assent. At this point, the pup was probably the only constant in the boy's life, it would be wrong to rob him of it.  _Not after I've taken so much_. Jon picked Ghost up by the scruff of his neck and held him close as he and Ned walked back towards the solar, with Ser Barristan falling into step behind him. He waved off Bran and Arya before turning his thoughts to what lay ahead.

_If Rhaegar knows what's good for him, I won't find him in my solar with that bloody harp._


	3. III The Prince No One Wanted

**The Prince No One Wanted**

The sun was almost completely below the horizon before Jon decided to come down from the castle walls. He knew the feast had already started, and he had given his word to both Lord Eddard and the King that he would be in attendance. The sounds of laughter and merriment had already begun to waft through the air with the smell of roast meats. He took one last look at the sun as it streaked the sky with red, giving way to the black of night. _The colors of my house._  It was a strange thought, but one he supposed he would have to get used to.

By the time he had descended the stairs and wandered down to the courtyard, Ghost was waiting for him, silent and ready. The wolf had taken up the habit of wandering around the castle, often being paid no mind by the various servants, guards, and others that seemed content to go about their business. Ghost didn't seem much to mind going unnoticed, almost as if he was born without the expectation of receiving attention. Jon thought it was because he was the runt of the litter, a bastard just like his master.  _But I'm not a bastard, am I?_

Once the doors of the great hall were in view he allowed himself a deep breath before taking the plunge. As soon as he stepped through those doors, his life would never be the same. He had some knowledge of courtly manners, but from what he had been told there was a much greater emphasis on them in King's Landing than in the North. This would be a Northern feast, to be sure, but he decided he would ask someone in the royal party how he might be expected to carry himself at a Southron dinner. Oddly enough, he thought it might be easier to ask Lady Catelyn. Unlike the Targaryens, she wasn't a stranger, and had seemed to have warmed to him in the short time since they had all learned the truth of his parentage. But she was still the woman who had treated him with hate and mistrust, who had tried to drive a wedge between him and her children, though she had only succeeded in doing so with Sansa. Although even that seemed not to have lasted. Sansa sought Jon out after his talk with Lord Eddard and the King to prattle on about how his life was just like one of the songs. How he had been hidden for his safety by his noble uncle but could now take his rightful place as a gallant prince. The whole thing made Jon want to wretch.

"Hello, bastard," came a voice from across the courtyard. Jon turned and saw a small man approach, goblet of wine in hand as he waddled over to where the boy was standing. He was perhaps a bit taller than Bran, with hair both pale-blonde and black and two mismatched eyes, one emerald green and one black as night. He walked up to Jon, took a sip of wine, and began to look him up and down, as if he were appraising an animal for auction.

"You're Tyrion Lannister, the Queen's brother?" Jon asked. He had heard tales about the Imp, and just like many of Old Nan's stories they were somewhat exaggerated. The little Lannister was ugly, to be certain, but the fabled scales and fangs were fortunately missing.

"And one-time Master of Coin! Quite right, bastard! It seems that is a head on your shoulders. Mayhaps you'll actually survive down in King's Landing."

"I'm no bastard!" Jon shot back, somewhat halfheartedly. He could still barely believe it himself.

"And if the Children of the Forest still walked the earth they would say I'm no dwarf, but neither of those things would do us any good in the capital."

"I…I'm still not sure if I'm going to King's Landing," Jon admitted. Other than the King and his…Lord Eddard, Jon still hadn't spoken of his looming decision to anyone else. It felt good to admit his insecurity though, and despite the dwarf's jape he could tell there was something sympathetic in his tone, as if he might have some inkling of what Jon was feeling.

"If not, you should consider accompanying me to the Wall on this little fact-finding mission of mine. The King has tasked me with a thorough appraisal of the state of the Night's Watch. You seem the quiet sort, but you'd doubtless be better conversation than some of these pig-headed knights who came north with me."

"I thought the King was a learned man." Jon said, surprised at Tyrion's apparent disinterest in King Rhaegar's company. The man who had just revealed himself as Jon's father was supposedly well-read and skilled in poetry and song.

"Oh, he most certainly is," laughed the Imp, "but of late he's become more learned in snarks and grumkins than the world we live in. I should warn you, if you do return with him to King's Landing he may be your only friend there. You're now one more warm body to stand between my sweet sister's little Daeron and the Iron Throne, and when Aegon and Rhaenys find out about you they'll no doubt resent having a living reminder of their father's betrayal of their mother around. Gods be good, lad, you haven't even arrived and you've alienated the entire court!" At this Tyrion let out a little chuckle, causing Jon to laugh along nervously.

"With so many princes in the capital, I can see why it wouldn't count for much," Jon tried to pass this off as a joke, but from the way Tyrion looked at him he realized he must have sounded sullen.

"Had you been raised in the court it might have," said the Imp, taking another swig of wine at the prospect. "But as a secret prince? Your mother and father were wed in a ceremony scarcely performed south of the Neck, and one which a clever septon would denounce in the name of piety and at the behest of an interested party. You're the prince no one wanted, which is why no matter what your father or anyone else may say you'll always be a bastard."

"You would speak to your Prince that way, Lord Tyrion?" Jon wanted to feign anger, to appear as a slighted noble might when his birth was called into question, but he had little practice and doubted he had been convincing. He had gone his entire life without being able to defend the honor of a mother he never knew and a father who claimed him as a mistake. Even now he couldn't make himself feel anger, just an old familiar ache. Ghost seemed to understand, whimpering and nuzzling his master's leg.

"Let me give you some advice, bastard," said Tyrion. "Never forget what you are. The rest of the world will not. Wear it like armor, and it will never be used to hurt you." At last, Jon found his fury.

"What the hells do you know about being a bastard, Imp?!" Ghost joined him in a low growl. Tyrion sighed, shook his head, and took another swig of wine, this time not stopping until the cup was completely dry.

"All dwarves are bastards in their father's eyes, Your Grace. But come! Let's to the feast! It's almost beginning to sound lively and I need more wine." The Imp went over to the doors to the great hall and Jon followed him in, unsurprised to see he was right.

The feast was definitely now in full swing, but it was evident many of the more notable attendees were in no mood for celebrating. Jon had seen Lord Eddard and Lady Catelyn speaking after he had left the man's solar, but those wounds had yet to heal, and after a long, awkward conversation with Lord Eddard and King Rhaegar it was obvious that they did not enjoy each other's company. When the Queen deigned to look at Jon at all, it was with utter disdain, although her children seemed to mostly just be curious. Baelor and Visenya were the two youngest, a boy and girl of seven and eight. Daeron, the eldest, was nearly of an age with Sansa. He looked at Jon with contempt, but not a contempt mixed with the hatred Jon could see in his mother's gaze. Tyrion took a seat at the far end of the main table at the hall beside his youngest nephew, and pointed to where Jon was expected to sit, to the left of his father the King. As he approached he caught Robb's gaze and the two shared a smile. The boy who he once knew as his brother's face was already somewhat flushed, meaning Jon wasn't sure if he would like to hear what he was about to say.

"So nice of you finally to join us,  _Jaharys_!" Robb japed. "Jaeharys? Jarjarys? You Targaryens make your damned Valyrian names so hard to pronounce!" Jon shared a laugh with his cousin as Robb motioned for Jeyne Poole to pour him some wine. As she approached Jon with a goblet, the steward's daughter offered it to him with a guilty stare and a slight blush. Jon hadn't spoken with Jeyne much, but he knew she gossiped about him with Sansa and that her father Vayon would not allow her to spend time with him. Jon had heard since he was too young to understand that the passion that led to bastardry made bastards passionate themselves, and he suspected that had been a part of the steward's reasoning. Not that he had ever felt any more passionate than Robb, or Jeyne Poole for that matter with the looks she was giving him. Jon decided to thank her politely and excuse himself.

"I think my first royal decree will be to forbid that name to be spoken in my presence!" Jon said as he quickly and good-naturedly wheeled on Robb.

"As you wish, Your Grace!" Robb replied facetiously as he stood up from his seat to bow.

"Robb!" Lord Eddard called from the middle of the main table where he sat to the right of the King. "Keep your wits about you. There will be an important announcement and we can't have you looking like a fool in front of our bannermen."

"Yes, father." Robb poured the rest of his wine into Jon's goblet, causing it just barely to run over.

"Thanks," said Jon.

"Anything for a brother."

"Cousin," Jon corrected before looking down at his wine. "Though after a few more of these I think the distinction will be lost on me."

"Jaehaerys!" Rhaegar's voice resounded and Jon looked to see the King staring expectantly at him, silently demanding that he take his seat. Jon excused himself from Robb, only to see him, Bran, and Rickon all snickering at the use of that awful name, and sat beside the King. Rhaegar took a sip of his wine and a bite of meat before turning to his son. Seeing the King's cheeks somewhat flushed at well, Jon was unsure what might come next.

"The venison here is different than in King's Landing," he said evenly. "More gamey, though reasonably well-spiced, all things considered. Do you know if there is anything different in the preparation or if it has something to do with the animal?"

"It's elk, Your Grace," Jon told him.

"So it is," the King mused. Much of their conversation continued on that way, but it was to be expected after the long, painful talk they had had in Lord Stark's solar. It was hard for Jon to be this close to the King and not think of the some of Rhaegar's answers to his questions, how cryptic some of them were, as if he wasn't sure of them himself or as if he couldn't explain his behavior without recourse to hunches and feelings only he had known. The worst was when Jon had asked the King if he had loved his mother. The words would no doubt haunt him for years.

_She was…important to me._  The Wall began to look more appealing.

"Are you excited to finally be leaving this frozen waste of a kingdom, brother?" Jon remembered, much to his dismay, that the Targaryen children had been seated in order of seniority, putting him next to Daeron, who had just returned from chatting with a now red-faced Sansa. The prince stared at Jon as if he were talking to a simpleton.

"Daeron, be good to your brother," counseled the King. "He has lived in the North his whole life. And even if he hadn't, I doubt he would be as uncharitable in his assessment of it as you are in yours."

"If I'm to be Daeron the Good, father, shouldn't I defend my inheritance against jumped-up bastards?" Rhaegar shot his third son a murderous glare, one that made the boy cringe a bit. But then he turned his attention back to Jon. He wasn't finished.

"That's a reference to the family history, in case you were wondering."

"Clever," noted Jon. "Reading all those history books must take time. Tell me, have you ever found a moment to put down one of those books and pick up a sword?"

"I've been trained by some of the finest knights in the Realm," Daeron pronounced, choosing his words more carefully now that the eyes of his father were on him.

"If you mean those white cloaks of yours, with a mouth like that I imagine they spend more time defending you than training you."

"Peace, Jaehaerys," warned the King. "Do you both wish to wake the dragon this night?" Jon speared himself a sausage off a passing tray and quickly filled his mouth to avoid further conversation. He almost spit it out when he heard the voice of a small girl behind him.

"Hi Jae, my name is Visenya too." Swallowing his food, Jon turned to see the smiling little Targaryen princess tugging at his sleeve.

"Father told me you were supposed to be a girl, and he and Aunt Lyanna were going to call you Visenya, just like me. Jaehaerys was a just-in-case name for if he was wrong."

"I had also considered Visenyon," the King added, "but it was unattested in any of the genealogies." Jon groaned. When a figure all in black caught his eye, Jon turned to see his uncle Benjen approaching the man he once thought his father. Jon asked the King to excuse him without waiting for a response, running over with the other Stark children to greet the First Ranger of the Night's Watch.

"Uncle Benjen!" shouted Bran, wrapping the lean man in a warm embrace. Arya and Rickon joined him in doing so, while Sansa curtsied politely and Robb waited until his younger siblings were out of the way to grip his uncle's forearm in greeting. Jon approached and tried to copy his former brother, but Benjen would have none of it, pulling him into a hug with almost as much abandon as Bran.

"Jon! Look how you've grown! Or is it—"

"Jon. It'll always be Jon."

"Whatever you say, Janoris," joked Rickon, although Jon wasn't sure if the boy has mispronounced the name on purpose or was genuinely unaware of how to say it.

"Listen, uncle, I was hoping I could talk to you," said Jon, "about maybe joining the Night's Watch."

"And I was hoping to talk to you about the same thing," Benjen replied. Turning back to the others, he said, "Excuse me, loves, as soon as Jon and I are done I promise I'll have enough time for all my nieces and nephews." They took a few steps to the side until they were out of earshot of the Stark children before Jon spoke.

"I promised the King I would make my decision by tomorrow night," Jon said. "But I'm still not sure what I should do. I don't know anything about King's Landing, and I don't want to go all the way down there just to find out I'm no good at being a prince."

"Jon, there's much you don't know about life at the Wall, either," his uncle counseled him. "You may think you understand it, but it's a hard life, and not one suited for a prince with so much to live for."

"But everyone says I'll still be a bastard, and I'm the second son!" Jon almost shouted. "Everything will go to Aegon, and I've got no friends at court!"

"Then make some. It's what you would have to do as a sworn brother. I wouldn't be able to be there for you as often as you think. My duties as First Ranger take me far beyond the Wall for weeks at a time. You would have to make a new family for yourself, same as in King's Landing."

"But the every man of the Night's Watch swears an oath! There's honor up there. I could trust my brothers more than I could those Targaryens." Benjen sighed at this.

"There's little honor among thieves, Jon. Or among rapers or murderers for that matter. Who do you think your new brothers would be? There are many of us who care for the Realm, but many more who chose the Wall over an executioner's block."

"So you don't want me either?" Jon knew his uncle could hear the hurt in his voice. This is not what he had wanted to hear. He realized now that he had just wanted Benjen to say that he was needed at the Wall, that it was the one place where he could belong and where he could do good, without living under the shadow of an older brother or trueborn siblings.

"The Night's Watch would be lucky to have you," Benjen said consolingly. "But in all your reasonings and justifications, all you've done is talk about King's Landing. I know it's a hard thing to go to a place like that, but if it isn't a home for you, you needn't try and make it one. If the Wall really is your destiny, it will still be there when you're done in the South." Jon gave his uncle a weak smile, showing he had gotten through to him, before turning to look at the Lord of Winterfell as his voice echoed through the hall.

"My Lords!" Lord Eddard had risen from his seat, holding his tankard of ale aloft as he called the attention of the hall to himself. Jon could see why Robb had been chastised about looking foolish in front of the Stark bannermen. Most of the important ones were here. He could see the Umbers, the Manderlys, the Glovers, the Ryswells, the Flints, the Dustins, and even the Boltons. Most of them had ridden down with Lord Eddard to meet the King at Moat Cailin. It had no doubt made the feast hideously expensive, but from what Jon had heard everyone had put something in, and the North was in a stable enough position financially because of the lower taxes Lord Eddard had negotiated out of the Rebellion.

"The King and I have an announcement!" One of Jon's father's gave way to the other as Rhaegar also rose, his smile warm and unburdened. This was not enough to stop some of the murderous glares he received from many of the Northmen. They looked to Lord Eddard, who despite the fact that he was announcing what he clearly considered to be good news, could only manage a civil countenance as Rhaegar began to speak.

"My Lords!" the King shouted, his voice strong and musical. "The North and the Crown have had many years of peace and friendship, as have House Targaryen and House Stark!" The hall had grown tense, but undaunted, Rhaegar continued.

"Indeed this is how it was in days of old, when my forebears made a pact with those of Lord Eddard. A pact I would see honored this night!" Murmurs could be heard amongst the assembled lords.

"When my ancestors fought and killed one another in the Dance of the Dragons, Lord Cregan Stark came to the aid of Queen Rhaenyra. In exchange, the hand of a Targaryen princess was offered to House Stark. When I leave your fair country I may take a Targaryen from you, but you will not be long without our presence." Jon clenched his teeth at this. With the way the King was talking in front of so many lords it would be difficult to refuse him. He looked at Benjen, who nodded understandingly. The murmurs grew.

"For it is to Lord Stark's son and heir that I pledge the hand of my sister, the Princess Daenerys!" The initial response was gasps and shocks. Not quite what the king had hoped for, Jon thought.

"And as her dowry, I offer a reprieve on royal taxes until she is wedded and bedded!" At this cheers and roars of approval thundered through the hall.

"Lord Umber!" bellowed the King. "What say you of my offer?" Why King Rhaegar had asked the opinion of Jon Umber, the massive man known as the Greatjon among Northerners, was something Jon couldn't wrap his head around. The man was the head of an important enough house, with their seat at Last Hearth being the first line of defense against the any Wildlings that got over the Wall, but the man was clearly drunk, and from what Jon had heard he had little love for the Targaryens.

"You were right to ask my opinion, Yer Grace," slurred the Greatjon. "For I'm a man who speaks his mind, especially when I've gotten a few of these in me!" He lifted up a tankard Jon suspected had come with him from Last Hearth, for it hard the Umber sigil upon it and was twice the size of any Jon had seen in Winterfell.

"You spoke of friendship and service, and the North has given the dragons that! We've even  _forgiven_ you for things other friends might find unpardonable," at the mention of the Rebellion Jon was terrified at the change in mood. There were "here, heres" and murmurs of assent throughout the hall. Queen Cersei's face was twisted into a scowl, as hardened into place as the face on a heart tree. King Rhaegar watched Lord Umber carefully, his expression revealing nothing.

"BUT WE GAVE YOU A GOOD BLOODY BEATING IN FRONT OF THE WHOLE REALM FIRST!" Rhaegar lifted his goblet in assent at this and the whole room cheered. The King was smiling and laughing, something Jon hadn't expected.  _Perhaps the wine is starting to affect him_ , Jon thought.  _I haven't known him for long, but there's something strange about that smile._  The Queen remained mortified. Daeron was fuming, but with his father present he seemed to know his place.

"Not to be draggin' up old quarrels, Yer Grace, but the point is the Northmen are the strongest fighters and the truest friends the Realm has ever known. You'll see it more clearly when you take yer bastard down to that rat's nest you call King's Landing!"  _Still a bastard,_  Jon thought.

"So what do I say of yer offer? I say it's about time we got some bloody respect up here! To Robb Stark, a good lad and a good-brother to the King in the North!" Jon noted how the last few words had been emphasized, as had the royal family. He had heard it said that after years of being left to their own devices, some in the North would have the Starks take up their old title, going from vassals of House Targaryen to kings in their own right. His doubts over whether this had just been a coincidence were erased when he heard the Greatjon start a chant that many other lords joined him in.

"The King in the North! The King in the North! The King in the North!" Lord Eddard had to calm them, suspecting the unruly crowd of his own bannermen might not have stopped for Rhaegar.

"Peace, Lord Umber," he said, before turning to the King, who clearly wished to speak.

"Well said, Lord Umber," chuckled the King. "You clearly have some of that famed Northern sense and fondness for plain talk. Those are things I hope to avail myself of should my son join me in the capital. What say you, Prince Jon, will you help me clean out that rat's nest of mine?" All eyes in the hall had turned to Jon, who was surprised to hear the King call him by the name he grew up with. He looked to his uncle Benjen, who gave him an encouraging nod.

"Aye, that I will, Your Grace."

"But he shall not go alone!" This time it was the Greatjon's son, called the Smalljon by many, who spoke. "My father has had his say and so will I! Prince Jon may be the son of a dragon, but the blood of wolves flows through him, and a wolf is nothing without his pack! I swear by the Old Gods, the only real gods north of the neck, that Jon can have my sword as long as he has need of it in the south!"

"Aye, he shall have my sword as well!" roared Jorah Mormont.

"And my bow!" shouted Domeric Bolton.

"And my axe!" bellowed Eddard Karstark.

"I had intended to send a few of my own men to accompany him," said Lord Eddard. "But a pack's strength lies in its numbers, so I have no doubt Jon will welcome you."

"Every last one of you is welcome to come with me!" shouted Jon. "I know not what possesses you to leave your seats in so fair a country, but I could use your strength in the times ahead."

"So it shall be!" cried the King, apparently eager to celebrate. "Music! Someone bring me my harp!" The bard at the feast came forth with both Rhaegar's harp and one of his own. The two shared a look like that of old friends and moved to the center of the hall, where they began to play a surprisingly lively tune, though one not so bawdy as to sully the image of the King. Nonetheless the joy that had previously been somewhat absent from the party was now fully evident. Jon grabbed a flagon of mead, which truth be told he preferred to the Southron wine his brother-cousin-good-uncle had poured him and drank the whole thing in one mighty gulp. As he felt his face become flushed he allowed himself a laugh that his uncle Benjen joined him in.  _Perhaps this could be the start of something good._


	4. IV Tyrion

**Tyrion**

They had made him leave early. Well, technically they hadn't made him do anything. His sister the queen had simply promised Benjen Stark and his black brothers some good wine and salted pork to take up to Castle Black if they set out the day after the feast. Of course it couldn't have occurred to her that his mission required he go with them, she had done it out of nothing more than the kindness of her heart. She had doubtless been unaware that it would have been nearly suicide for a dwarf, and a Lannister dwarf at that, to travel virtually alone with a small guard in the middle of the North. The land itself almost seemed hostile. Two-hundred and eight leagues of bleak, desolate, inhospitable terrain had stood between him and the Wall when he had first left Winterfell, and every mile of it seemed more dismal and dreary than the one before.  _And this is what it looks like in summer._

He rode up alongside Benjen, offering the First Ranger a friendly smile. It went unreciprocated. For what might have been the tenth time, he tried to strike up conversation.

"You know, Lord Benjen, I've been thinking," he said in the friendliest tone he could muster after so many rejections.

"Always dangerous, thinking," the Stark replied gruffly. Good sense might have told Tyrion to leave it at that, but the road was long and he needed to pass the time.

"Dangerous, I'll admit, but when the gods bless you with a large head and tiny limbs you find you don't have the talent for much else. What say we play a little joke on the next people we meet on the road?"

"We won't meet any people." Tyrion knew the First Ranger spoke truthfully on this point. Three castles guarding a three hundred mile stretch of land meant small raiding parties must get through quite often. From what Tyrion understood the majority of the smallfolk who had once lived in the lands granted to the Watch were either dead or had fled to the demesne of House Umber nearby.

"But suppose we do. Word travels slowly this far north. How do you think they would react if I told them I was your prisoner, sent to join the Night's Watch for the horrible crimes of House Lannister?"

"And you'd tell them you're a Lannister?" Benjen raised an eyebrow at this.

"Oh yes," Tyrion said, a mischievous grin upon his face. "That way I could have them guess at what sordid deeds had me banished to the Wall."

"They wouldn't guess," Benjen told him.

"And why not?"

"We're too far north. They wouldn't know what a Lannister is."

"Well suppose they do. Suppose we're dealing with a wandering maester or a surprisingly literate band of peasants."

"They still wouldn't guess."

"And your reason this time?"

"You're a Lannister. They already know you're guilty of something."

"Come now, Lord Benjen," Tyrion continued. "I may have my vices, but partaking of the joys of wine and women is hardly a crime."

"You wouldn't be able to do that as a man of the Watch, you know," Benjen said, finally indulging Tyrion. "You'd be breaking your vows."

"Tell that to the fair maidens of Mole's Town. From what I understand those vows are more honored in the breach than the observance."

"Honored in the breach?"

"Just something I read somewhere. A tale of a Northern prince, I believe. He was a miserable lad, I imagine he'd fit right in at the Wall."

"You know I think I've heard that one," Benjen said. "But the way I remember it he was driven mad by incest and intrigue. Sounds more like your kind of fellow." A long pause followed.

"Where do you think I would fit in as a black brother, Lord Benjen?" Tyrion asked.

"You'd be a sorry sight as a ranger, that much is certain."

"Oh, come now, I'd like to think with an axe in my hand and a bit of training I could be the terror of every kneecap beyond the Wall!" Benjen chuckled at this. Tyrion was glad to have broken through the First Ranger's icy exterior, but he disliked the reminder that the easiest way he could make someone warm up to him was with a jape at his own expense.

"I doubt you'd have the frame to be a builder, either," mused Benjen. "Maybe the stewards. Tell me, Lord Tyrion, has a lord of your stature ever stooped down to clean anything?" The half-concealed smirk on the Stark's face made it obvious he thought he was being clever.

"I'll have you know that when I was a lad, my lord father put me in charge of all the cisterns and drains at Casterly Rock! In no time at all I had them cleaner and working better than they had in centuries!"

"If you told that to the Lord Commander, you'd do nothing else for the rest of your life." Benjen was almost smiling now, and Tyrion had almost convinced himself he had made a friend.

"Surely the need for Washers on the Wall is not so desperate? How many men hold Castle Black?"

"Six-hundred," talk of business seemed to have reminded the First Ranger who he was speaking to. "Two-hundred at the Shadow Tower and less than that at Eastwatch-by-the-Sea. At least that's what it was last I checked. You'd have to ask the Lord Commander or Maester Aemon for the exact figures." Tyrion suspected that was the end of their conversation for the day, but for once he didn't care. As he and Benjen reached the top of the hill they had been ascending they could see it. As desolate and empty as the North may have been, the Wall made up for it. Standing in defiance of any known principles of engineering, the massive sheet of ice rose so high into the air Tyrion could swear he saw clouds about its top, and stretched so far in either direction that it seemed a boundary even to the horizon. Turning his attention to the top once more he could see the thin frames of catapults and small black dots that must have been the black brothers. 'One hundred leagues long' and 'seven hundred feet high' were meaningless phrases until one stood before their very instantiation. Nothing Tyrion had read in any book by Lomas Longstrider could do it justice.

Castle Black, however, left much to be desired. It was thrice as small as the Wall if one measured from the top of its highest tower, and its dank, shabby workings were laid bare by the fact that it was built to be utterly indefensible from an attack from the south.  _If enough small parties could meet up after crossing the Wall,_  Tyrion thought morbidly. Supposedly that kind of sophistication was beyond the Wildlings. Some of the innovations introduced by Benjen, like randomizing the size and strength of ranging parties, had proven effective enough in keeping raiders in check. Tyrion tried to put the thought of a Wildling invasion out of his mind. The Watch had kept them in check for years, and even if the rumors of a new King-beyond-the-Wall were true, it was doubtful he would be able to unite enough of them for any serious attack on the Seven Kingdoms.

"When will I be meeting with the Lord Commander?" Tyrion asked.

"At the feast in your honor," Benjen stated. "But that won't be until tomorrow night. The Lord Commander expected that you'll want to get straight to work. I'm to escort you to the library to speak to Maester Aemon." With a sigh Tyrion goaded his pony on after the First Ranger as they both entered Castle Black through its main gate. He was disappointed that he would have to wait until the following evening to have a good meal and a good drink, but at least that evening he would have the chance to speak with a living legend.

The Maester Aemon Targaryen that King Rhaegar spoke of was wise, diligent, humble, and hardworking, everything a true maester should be. Given the somewhat combative stance the King had occasionally taken with the order, Tyrion was unsure of what to make of that assessment. Supposedly the two had been in correspondence for some time, and Rhaegar's fondness for his great-great-uncle had made him something of a household name in King's Landing, though not in the same way as Marwyn the Mage or the Red Witch of Dragonstone. Dismounting and following Benjen up the stairs out of the courtyard and into Castle Black's library, Tyrion was about to find out what truth surrounded the stories surrounding him.

Sitting at the end of a long table, surrounded by books and parchment, was a man of immense age. He was scribbling something on parchment, though he did not seem to be looking at what he was writing. Nonetheless, his expression was that of complete focus. Old withered robes hung about his frail body and a maester's chain was draped about his neck. Tyrion immediately recognized the links in the chain that symbolized mastery of skills useful to the Watch: black iron for ravenry, bronze for astronomy, silver for healing, pale steel for smithing, along with a few others besides. At the sound of Tyrion's arrival his head turned quickly towards the door, though his eyes seemed to search vainly, almost randomly, for the new arrivals.

"Who's there?" he asked. "Benjen, have you come with the Lannister?"  _A blind old man? This is the famed Maester Aemon?_  Tyrion supposed he shouldn't have been surprised. The King had said something about his relative being able to see things more clearly at the Wall, and it was just like Rhaegar to lace his words with irony.

"No need to answer, my boy, I know it's you," the old man continued, a warm smile coming over his wrinkled face. "You smell too much like the road and I haven't heard a gait like that since a woman from Mole's Town brought her son with her and said he was Buckwell's." Benjen laughed at that.

"I don't think that comparison is entirely fair, Maester Aemon," Tyrion told him. "I doubt the Buckwell boy can hold his wine as well as I can." This elicited a chuckle from the old man.

"And he no doubt lacks your head for sums and figures. My nephew promised me a giant in that regard. Did he bother to tell you why?"

"He did not," Tyrion admitted. "Simply that I was to prepare a thorough appraisal of the state of the Watch."

"So like Rhaegar," the maester muttered. "He may ask me a thousand questions, but he seems determined to keep his own counsel." Tyrion had to admit that did sound like the Rhaegar he knew. "You can leave us, Benjen, giant though he may be, I think Tarly and I are safe from our guest. Speaking of which, Samwell! Did you find that book I asked you for?"

"It's here, Maester Aemon!" A fat, pudgy boy dressed in the black of the Night's Watch came stumbling out of the bookshelves with an ancient tome in his hands. Tyrion had heard Randyll Tarly had a son in the Watch, and supposed this must be him. The young Tarly was about to drop the book in front of the old maester, but Aemon stopped him with a wave of his hand before it could fall on the still wet ink. Extending his arms, he received the book from the boy and set it in his lap, running his fingers over the engraved cover, a slow smile coming to his face.

"Yes, I think this may be the one," he said. He motioned for Tyrion to come over to where he was sitting, and handed the book to him. Tyrion looked at the pages on which Maester Aemon had been writing and realized quickly that blindness had not made the man illiterate. On the parchment were a number of sums and figures in excellent handwriting. Turning his attention to the book once more Tyrion looked at the title:  _A Survey and Summary of the Lands of the New Gift._  He had spent enough time in libraries to know that the tome was at least as old as the man who had handed it to him. He opened it carefully and began to slowly page through it, seeing to his astonishment what appeared to be a thorough record of the lands granted to the Night's Watch by Queen Alysanne some two hundred years ago,  _from before they had been given to the Night's Watch_. What lords and keeps had been there, a census of the smallfolk, what incomes had been derived from the lands, all of it was there. Tyrion was unsure what surprised him more, that the old man thought he would need this volume or that it even existed.

"A bit out of date, but I have no doubt it will be useful in our task," Aemon assured him.

"I'm sorry, maester, but I must confess my ignorance as to its usefulness. What will this tell us about the Watch as it is now?"

"Only how far it has fallen, I'm afraid, but that's a part of our endeavor as well. King Rhaegar wouldn't have bothered to send one of his most valued counselors up here for a simple report, Lord Tyrion. Sam and I could have handled that on our own. No, you're to determine what it would take to get the Watch back to full strength, and then put forth a proposal for putting as many men on the Wall as possible before winter." Tyrion wished he had a goblet of wine in his hand so he had something to spit out.

"You can't be serious? What need is there for something like that?"

"I asked my nephew that same question in our correspondence. He thinks a great battle is coming and that the Realm must be prepared, that the Prince that was Promised must not falter." Tyrion scoffed at the mention of prophecy.

"I must admit I was a bit skeptical myself, Lord Tyrion, but the situation here at the Wall is far more dire than the Realm realizes. More and more patrols are disappearing, and those that do return come back with horrifying stories. For one, they say Mance Rayder has crowned himself King-beyond-the-Wall, and is gathering every fighting Wildling he can for an assault on the Seven Kingdoms. Laugh all you want at my nephew's obsession with prophecy, but we may soon face the most dire threat to the Realm since Raymun Redbeard, and that's if we're lucky."

"And if we aren't?" Tyrion asked against his better judgment. It seemed the King was chasing something more substantial than snarks and grumkins, but he couldn't see how there would be anything else to fear besides a Wildling invasion, however disastrous that may be. Maester Aemon let out a long sigh, and motioned for Samwell to help him to his feet.

"I'll need to show you something in the ice cells to answer that question," the maester replied gravely as he began to hobble towards the door of the library. "Sam, make sure Lord Tyrion has a torch when we get to the cells. He's going to want it." Tyrion took a torch from the pudgy boy, who offered to help lead Maester Aemon to Castle Black's dungeon, the prison cells made of ice that were carved into the Wall itself. Tyrion had spent enough time with the King to be accustomed to cryptic phrases and secrecy, but he found it a refreshing change of pace that the old maester was actually willing to show him what he was talking about.

It had grown dark. The courtyard of the castle was nearly empty. Each step that they took along the wooden balcony caused the boards to creak eerily. Tyrion wanted to make small talk, but found his words caught in his throat. He could not see Maester Aemon's face, but every now and then Samwell would look back at him with a frightened expression, his own torch-bearing arm quivering somewhat every time he did so.  _The boy is terrified._ Tyrion's own heart began to pound. He tightened his grip on his torch. His mind began to race, thinking of what could possibly be in that cell.  _A young giant, perhaps,_  he thought.  _It's not impossible that they could still survive beyond the Wall._  He told himself it was probably nothing, that the maester was making a mountain out of a molehill. For some reason he did not find that convincing.

After what seemed like an endless trek, they approached the ice cells. Maester Aemon extended a hand to each cell, reaching out and using his sense of touch to keep count. One. Two. Three. Tyrion just wanted him to stop, to say he had reached his destination. He cursed himself for feeling like a child in the face of whatever was waiting for him. Finally, the old maester stopped. He turned toward the very last cell and motioned for Tyrion to approach.

"There he is," he said. Tyrion found himself somewhat confused. There was nothing in the cell but a small jar. Maester Aemon withdrew some keys from his pocket and opened the door. He looked towards the pudgy boy on his arm.

"You don't want to bring it out here, do you Sam?" The boy shook his head vehemently at the maester's question. Based on the look on Samwell's face, Tyrion was amazed he hadn't pissed his pants.

"You'll have to go in to get a look at it then, Lord Tyrion," Maester Aemon said matter-of-factly. Tyrion gritted his teeth and turned back to the old man.

"What am I looking at, exactly?"

"Waymar Royce. Or what's left of him. You might have found it strange that Lord Commander Mormont did not greet you upon your arrival. That was because after tending to his wounds I wouldn't allow it. This  _thing_ attacked him in his chambers and he barely escaped with his life." Tyrion stepped into the cell, slowly approaching the jar. Each step he took seemed to reverberate throughout the cell, and he found it hard to keep his grip on the torch. His heart was pounding in his ears. He felt cold, colder than he had any right to be even when surrounded by ice.

"Don't pick it up, Lord Tyrion!" Maester Aemon shouted after him. "If you break the jar it would be a lot of trouble to get it back into another one!" Tyrion finally reached the jar and squatted down to get a good look at it. In it was a severed hand. Slowly, cautiously, he reached out and pressed his fingers against the glass. The hand leapt towards him, causing him to stumble and fall. The torch went out. The jar inched in his direction as the hand pushed it forward, animated by some unnatural power. The cold grew worse. Tyrion scrambled back the way that he came, slipping and sliding on the icy floor until he quickly made his way out of the cell. Maester Aemon slammed the door shut. The hand had stopped moving.

"It felt your warmth," he said.

"That's Waymar Royce?!" Tyrion asked.

"That's what they turned him into," Maester Aemon replied. "That's what they'll turn us all into unless we can give Prince Aegon the time he needs to become the Prince that was Promised. That is the fate of all Seven kingdoms unless the Watch can truly be the shield that guards the Realms of Men." Tyrion shook his head. He did not want to believe it. Years of learning and education had told him that what he had seen couldn't be real. But everything he had experienced had told him it was. He knew no book he had read would provide him any solace if he felt that freezing cold again.

"I suppose the Wildling threat is quite serious," he half-stammered. "Let's return to the library. I think we may have a lot more work on our hands than just rebuilding the Watch." Maester Aemon allowed himself a small smile.

"A giant indeed."


	5. V. Catelyn

**Catelyn**

As the sun's rays streamed through the window of her room and gently caressed her face, Catelyn awoke with a start. She barely had time to take stock of her surroundings before she saw her husband getting helped into a shirt of mail by the servants. He buckled Ice to his side and gave her a resigned look, as if he were about to ride off to war.

"Ned, what is it? Are we in danger? What's he done, Ned?!" Catelyn couldn't stand the thought of being trapped in her own home again. Thoughts of the Siege of Riverrun came rushing back to her. Thoughts of being hemmed in, surrounded by Lannister men cheering the name of Rhaegar Targaryen. Of Gregor Clegane riding towards her father. There had hardly been a moment then she hadn't held Robb close to her breast, but all her children were too big for that now.  _They've grown too big for their mother to defend them._  It had hurt seeing her husband return with a bastard in his arms, but that feeling could never have compared to her relief at knowing the Siege had been lifted. As her husband had taken her deep into the heart of the North, farther and farther away from the horrors of the war and her family's defeat, she had slowly begun to believe they were safe. Ned had seemed cold at first, as he had on their wedding night, but slowly she had grown warm to the man as she saw how he took care of his family, and how he protected his kingdom.

This had made the King's visit feel like a shock, a cruel reminder of the tense political situation that belied the comfort and happiness she had finally found at Winterfell. Rhaegar Targaryen and his Lannister pets had returned, tearing everything she had known asunder. The man who ruined her House stood before her as an honored guest, and he claimed Ned's bastard as his own. Guest right was supposed to go both ways, ensuring no harm would come to the hosts as well, but if King Rhaegar truly practiced sorcery like the septons of White Harbor said he would have no regard for the laws of gods and men. She looked at Ned with a pleading gaze. She needed to know her family would be safe.

"We'll be fine, Cat," he assured her. "A show of strength, nothing more. I just need to give Rhaegar a proper farewell. Did you have another nightmare?"

She had. She had dreamt that Rhaegar had executed scores of men in Winterfell for cheering 'King in the North' along with the Greatjon. She had seen Rhaegar's handsome face distorted, his eyes bulged, his nostrils flared, and his lips curling upward into a snarl that showed sharp teeth clinched in anger. She had dreamt that he laughed wildly as he went about it, stopping to look at her with a savage grin on his face, only to remind her that the man who passes the sentence must swing the sword. She had seen enough of war in her youth to know what a man being beheaded looked like, and it was not hard for her imagination to picture Rhaegar slaughtering Lord Umber in that manner. Rhaegar would swing his sword down on the Greatjon's neck, but he could not cut all the way through. The lord of Last Hearth would roar in pain as it would take several more brutal hacks just to sever his head completely. The King would be panting when he finished, his once smooth hair matted and disheveled. But it was just a dream. Ned had reminded her that heading to Moat Cailin with so many of his bannermen had served another purpose. With so many guests already, he told the King, he would not be able to accommodate a large royal party. Allegedly Rhaegar had taken the hint and sent some of his men back. No, once she calmed herself she knew Rhaegar would not try anything while in Winterfell. He may have been mad, but he was not stupid.

"Ned, how could you agree to that marriage for Robb?" She blurted out. In the past they had approached these kinds of subjects more delicately, but the King's visit had been trying on their own marriage, first with the revelation that Ned had lied to her for so many years, then when it had been decided that  _another_  Targaryen would be brought to Winterfell to replace the one that was leaving. She had been there when it was decided that the Pact of Ice and Fire would be honored, of course, and she had done her best to politely voice her objections. She had reminded Rhaegar and her husband that women had a place in matchmaking, and that she could say as a woman that a princess accustomed to life in the capital would find little joy in the North, and that an unhappy marriage could hardly be the basis of a lasting peace. But Rhaegar had countered by offering a reprieve on royal taxes, and though there appeared to be a bit more haggling that had been all it took. Her husband was not greedy, but he knew enough of his bannermen were, and enough of them resented paying tithes to King's Landing. Slowly she got out of bed and began brushing her hair. She knew she would be expected to see the royal party off too.  _Good riddance_ , she thought.

"It's a good match, Cat. It comes with a good dowry and gives us a good hostage," he said. After a pause, he went on. "We're not in a position to turn it down just yet."

"Then when will we be?" she shot back, though still focused on her hair. "You said yourself Moat Cailin is nearly ready."

"But the Westhold isn't, and neither Bran nor Rickon are of an age to take command of either one."

"Why does it have to be them? The Cassels have proven themselves—"

"But they aren't Starks," Ned said solemnly. "Cat, the dragons are losing the North bit by bit. Rhaegar knows it, and so do we. War will come, but when it does we can't be in the same position your father was." The brush stopped moving. Catelyn looked at her husband, horrified. Ned's face grew pale; he knew he had touched a nerve.

"I'm sorry," he told her, his voice laden with remorse. "I just meant…our bannermen can't be waiting to turn on us if we look weak, like the Freys did at the Trident. They have to look to us first for protection. They have to see our family on the battlefield before their own. They have to see us as the North, Cat, and as equals to any house south of the Neck, even those that put crowns on their heads."

"And a royal marriage will help with that," she said sullenly. Slowly, she went back to readying herself for the day, the brush moving through her long auburn hair more and more smoothly.

"Yes Cat, it will. All giving us Daenerys does is remind the North how much the dragons need us. Her children with Robb will still be raised at Winterfell, they'll be taught to put the North first. They'll still be Starks, just like Jon." Cat scoffed.

"And yet  _Jaehaerys_  is going south, and you're letting him." Catelyn thought it a good time to remind her husband of his nephew's true name. Although learning the truth of his parentage had made her see the boy somewhat differently, she could not bring herself to trust him. Cat may have been taking her husband to task for letting him go, but she knew that if Jon relented and asked to stay at Winterfell for a while longer she would speak to Ned against it. Even if he weren't a bastard he was still a Targaryen, born from the passion between the son of a madman and a girl who refused to learn her place. He may have been family, but both his blood and his upbringing had given him reason to work against her children.

"I don't think Jon will stay there long," Ned told her, opening the door for the servants who entered their chambers with a bow, several dresses, and a selection of jewelry and accessories for Catelyn to choose from. She chose a simple but lovely gown in the colors of her husband's house, with an exquisite wolf pelt to wrap around her shoulders as protection against the cold. She also motioned for earrings of silver with rubies and sapphires to evoke the Tully colors.

"It will take time to make Winterfell truly fit for a princess," he continued sardonically. "By the time we're ready to receive her I wouldn't be surprised if Jon volunteered to escort Daenerys north with that fellowship of his."

"And when he does?" Reminding Ned of his hypocrisy was one thing, but the possibility of Jon returning to Winterfell was something she wanted to guard against. "What if he wants his own keep? Will you give it to him? He was born of passion; what if he deflowers your son's betrothed on the way to her own wedding?" Ned scowled, waving off the servants who had now finished helping him prepare. Now it was she who had touched a nerve.

"Cat, when have you ever seen the boy inflamed with passion? I suspect if Jon does not join the Night's Watch I can find a place for him. I've spoken with Rhaegar about resettling the Gift with lords who would be subject to the Watch. For all his faults he understands how badly we've neglected them. He seemed amenable to the idea." Catelyn had now fully slipped on her dress and sent the servants away, beginning to powder her face. It was a vanity she rarely had time for, but she could not stand the thought of being upstaged by Cersei Lannister once again.

"So you would give the dragons a second front from which to wage war on us?" Eddard seemed unfazed by this question, pointed though it may have been.

"Whether Rhaegar likes it or not, if he agrees to the proposal then it will mostly be Northmen there anyway. I've already mentioned it to Lord Commander Mormont, and it's what he would prefer. Besides, how many Southrons do you think could survive up there?" Ned chuckled slightly and despite herself Catelyn joined him. Cersei Lannister's reaction when she had mentioned summer snows had been priceless.

Finally ready, Catelyn moved towards the door of their chambers, mentally preparing herself to face the day and the Targaryens. Ned caught her hand. Before she could react he pulled her in close and whispered in her ear.

"Cat, I know this hasn't been easy for you," he said. "It's been hard on me too, seeing them here. But I promise you this. They will never take from us what we have built here, together. I love our home, I love our children, and I love you. And I will defend you all until my last breath."

"I'll hold you to that promise, Lord Stark." She disentangled herself from his embrace, a faint hint of a smile on her lips. She wasn't ready to forgive him yet, but she was glad to see him making an effort.

Together they left their chambers and headed out into Winterfell's main courtyard. Rhaegar and his family were there, dressed and ready to depart. It wasn't a particularly chilly morning by Northern standards, but the King did not seem to take well to the cold. He looked resplendent as usual, in the black and red plate he had ridden in with and with a circlet of Valyrian steel about his head, but he was noticeably shivering and his lips seemed a pale shade of blue. Cersei and Daeron stood about impatiently while the wheelhouse was being prepared, and Visenya and Baelor were looking about with children's curiosity as the royal party prepared to take their leave. Ser Barristan stood at the ready, the aged knight standing silently behind his king.

Cat's own children were ushered out by Septa Mordane in short order, and she was relieved to see they all looked presentable. Robb looked quite dashing in a grey and white doublet, much like his brothers. Sansa looked lovely as always in a green dress she had almost never worn, but a blushing look she sent Prince Daeron was enough to explain it. She had become somewhat infatuated with the Targaryen prince since his arrival here, and although he retained the silver-blonde hair and countenance of his father, he nonetheless had his mother's green eyes. Although in a way that was a trait of his father's as well, for it was said Rhaegar had coveted his father's throne long before the Mad King was ready to surrender it. Looking to Arya, Cat was relieved to see that her youngest daughter was wearing a dress at all. Septa Mordane had even managed to keep Arya from dirtying herself on the way to greet the royal party. Catelyn's faith in the Seven was not what it used to be, but she thanked them for the small miracle before her. The Northmen who had chosen to accompany Jon were there as well. The Smalljon, Domeric Bolton, Eddard Karstark, and Jorah Mormont were all waiting and ready with their retainers, along with a small portion of the Stark household guard Ned had decided to send south with Jon.

"Jaehaerys was not with your children, Lord Eddard?" asked the King.

"He asked if he could pay his respects to his mother in the Crypts before he left, Your Grace," Ned informed him. "I imagine he's still there now." The King sighed and turned a melancholy gaze towards the Lord of Winterfell.

"We must be off soon," he said flatly. "I will go and fetch him." Cersei scowled at this, and Daeron seemed upset at the prospect as well.

"It may be best to let him have his time alone with her, Your Grace. You and I knew Lyanna, but the boy never had the opportunity."

"I would like to see her as well, Lord Eddard. One last time." Ned clenched his teeth at this, but relaxing he exhaled and looked at the King. Jon's fellowship was staring at him expectantly.

"The Crypts of Winterfell are for House Stark to mourn our dead, Your Grace. Please, I would not violate the peace of your own ancestors beneath the Sept of Baelor." This time it was Rhaegar who clenched his teeth.

"She was my wife, Lord Eddard."

"Aye, but she was my sister for far longer." The King's nostrils flared and his eyes narrowed.

"Very well, Lord Stark. We shall fetch him together, but I shall not enter the Crypts." As the two headed off together with Ser Barristan in tow, a long silence followed as those who remained in the courtyard found themselves with little to say. Catelyn realized she had been left in a very awkward position. Thankfully, she was not the one who would have to make small talk.

"We have been much honored by your visit, Your Grace," a red-faced Sansa said to Daeron.

"What a kind thing to say, sweetling," the Queen cut in. Catelyn doubted her daughter had noticed the displeasure in Cersei's voice.

"Th-thank you, Your Grace," Sansa went on nervously. "It truly was a pleasure to receive you all as guests…it's been wonderful, just like one of the songs."

"I take it you have a fondness for the songs?" asked Cersei haughtily. When all of this was over Cat knew she would have to explain to Sansa just what the Queen was doing. Sansa nodded meekly in response to the question. Cersei smiled in a manner that to the untrained eye would be seen as polite before continuing.

"Lovely. What a lovely daughter you have, Lady Catelyn. How old are you, sweetling?" Sansa's eyes were on Daeron, but Cat noticed the boy had already lost interest.

"Thirteen, Your Grace."

"Lovely. You're very tall for thirteen. And still growing I take it?" Sansa nodded.

"Tell me, Lady Catelyn, has your daughter bled yet?" Thankfully before Cat could answer the Queen's question Ned and Rhaegar returned with Jon. The boy looked miserable, but that was nothing new.  _At least he'll be miserable somewhere else_.

Jon found a horse saddled and waiting for him. Before he could mount it, Robb walked over to him.

"Next time I see you, you'll be all in red and black," he said.

"Black always was my color," laughed Jon. Prince Daeron looked on his father as if Rhaegar had just slapped him, and Catelyn remembered enough of her history to know why. Daeron usurped by a black dragon at his father's urging. As amusing as she found it, she did her best to remain impassive.

"Farewell, Stark," Jon said warmly to his cousin.

"And you, Targaryen." The two embraced as the other Stark children approached to say their goodbyes. Bran and Rickon hugged their cousin, both trying to keep a stiff upper lip in the face of what clearly a sad day for them. Arya didn't bother. She cried openly and buried her face in Jon's doublet, allowing her embrace to dishevel her hair. Catelyn sighed. She had tried so hard to keep them from growing attached to someone she knew would only hurt them in the end, but she had only had any success with Sansa. The girl approached Jon slowly and curtsied politely.

"Farewell, Your Grace," she said more warmly than Cat would have liked.

"And you, My Lady," Jon replied. Ned approached him last, bending down so he could look the boy in the eye.

"Remember what I said in the crypts, Jon. You'll always be welcome here." The Targaryen boy turned his sullen gaze to Catelyn, lingering there a moment before turning back to Ned. Cat realized she had no idea what she had looked like to him, or how she herself had even felt under his gaze, but she gained some insight into the boy's thoughts when she heard the emptiness in his reply to her husband.

"Thank you, Lord Eddard. I'll remember that." The goodbyes that followed were nowhere near as tearful nor as emotional. The Starks and their retainers maintained courtly courtesy in bidding farewell to the Targaryens, and the royal party returned the favor. Rhaegar and Ser Barristan mounted their horses, and Cersei ushered her children into the wheelhouse. Jon was about to step into the saddle when Ghost ran up behind him. The dire wolf was already as large as some the hounds Farlen kept in the kennels. Cersei stopped in her tracks and turned to the King.

"My love, surely that beast isn't coming with us?" Jon also looked pleadingly at his father, but Rhaegar had eyes for neither of them. He regarded Ghost with an intrigued expression. He stared into the animal's eyes contemplatively. It made no sound, but just by looking at it Catelyn could tell it too was begging to remain with its master. A small smile played about Rhaegar's face before disappearing.

"Of course it is," he said authoritatively. "I would have it no other way. In fact, this beast is under royal protection. Any who harm it will face the same penalty as a poacher in our woods." Jon smiled.

"Thank you, Your Grace," he added warmly. The King simply nodded and turned his horse towards the gate of the castle. The rest of the royal party followed, slowly trickling out. It seemed to Catelyn like an eternity as she waited for them to be gone. As everyone else who had assembled to greet them began to filter out of the courtyard, Cat turned to her husband.

"Ned, I've been thinking," she said quietly. "You spoke of needing to make 'preparations' so that Winterfell could be worthy of a princess."

"What did you have in mind?" he asked her.

"It occurred to me that one excuse you could give King's Landing is that any princess would deserve a number of ladies in waiting, as Daenerys no doubt has in the capital. Should we not assemble our own Northern ladies for her, to help her grow more accustomed to our ways?"

"Naturally," Ned agreed, sounding somewhat intrigued.

"But of course only the best would do for a princess of royal blood," Cat went on facetiously. "I would have to select them myself as a Southron lady who knows what must be done to adapt to the North, and that would take a great deal of time. You should advise the King that we won't be ready until then." Eddard nodded, seeming to like where she was going.

"Very well, you have my leave to begin your search," he said. "Whenever you think it most prudent, of course." Catelyn smiled and embraced her husband. She hated deceiving him. The truth of the matter was that the appearance of Rhaegar had been far more trying than she would ever admit. Despite all the courtesies, it felt as though lions and dragons had come to her home once more to take everything she held dear, just as they had when she watched the Mountain murder her father. This time they had robbed her of her faith in the future, and to an extent of her trust in her husband. Next time they might take even more. Which was why there would be no next time. So as Catelyn removed herself from Eddard's embrace and followed him back to their chambers, she swore an oath to herself that Rhaegar and his bastard would be the last Targaryens to ever set foot in Winterfell.


	6. VI. The Prince of Winterhall (Part I)

**The Prince of Winterhall (Part I)**

_In a way, he felt free. The stone lair he had been in before had kept him from the scents on the wind and the sounds of the open country. Whenever night fell he would leap and bound through the fields after whatever scent he found enticing. Very rarely would he see his prey, but he did not rely on sight alone to hunt, and the signs of them were everywhere. He knew he still had to give the deer a wide berth, for he was alone and without his pack, but rabbits and squirrels were there in abundance, and what they lacked in sustenance they made up for in the thrill of chasing them down. He savored the taste of their blood in his jaws as he tore into them. There was something about live prey that was far more satisfying than the burnt meats he was fed during the day._

_He was alone and without his pack. His brothers and sisters had remained behind in the stone lair to the North. There were times he thought he could hear them calling on the wind, but the further he traveled by day those calls grew fainter and fainter. A part of him wanted to respond, to look to the moon and let out a great howl, but it was not his way. They knew that as well. It felt strange to be without them, but he knew it would have been stranger to be without the boy. They understood one another in a way not even his brothers could fully comprehend. This was where he belonged. He knew he was tired. He returned to the boy's side and lay down beside him._

_He was alone and without his pack, but he had the boy._

Jon woke to see Ghost curled up at his side. He gently placed a hand on the wolf's head and gave it a slight rub. Ghost lifted his head to look at him, and his red eyes returned an appreciative gaze. John had seen Sansa talking to her dire wolf, brushing her fur and calling her Lady, gushing about how good she was, but none of that was necessary between him and Ghost. Jon smiled and rose from the ground on which he had slept the night before. He had asked the King if he could sleep out in the open during their journey to the capital, and Rhaegar had readily agreed. Although the Queen had supported Jon vocally on that score (while expressly forbidding Baelor and Visenya from joining him), that had not seemed to have influenced her husband's decision. Jon hated the fact that even after that long talk in Lord Eddard's solar and weeks on the road together, his father's motives remained opaque to him. The King seemed to want to cultivate a familiarity with Jon while at the same time keeping his distance. Rhaegar had told him that he would like his half-brother Aegon. Supposedly everyone liked his half-brother Aegon. But Aegon had not nearly torn the Realm apart over a war for his mother, brought him into the world, and then ignored him for fifteen years.  _I did not think you had survived_. The words had been sincere, but they had sounded strange. They were laden with emotion, but Jon could not tell if it was the emotion of a father who had finally found his son. There was so little he understood about his father and his family. It made him wonder how much he understood about himself. Jon began to get ready for the continued journey south, putting on a new tunic and fastening a black cloak about his shoulders. He brushed some hair out of his face and began to roll up the furs he had slept in. He could not stop thinking about that conversation.

"Awake at last, Your Grace." That is, until Jorah Mormont interrupted his train of thought. The Lord of Bear Island and the rest of Jon's fellowship seemed to have dressed already and had begun breaking their fast. Jorah took a bite of a roll in his hand and threw another one at Jon, who caught it and bit into it. It was hard and tasted somewhat stale, but he knew that it would help provide the nourishment he needed for the long day's ride ahead of him. Jorah smirked as he saw Jon's difficulty in chewing and swallowing it.

"It goes down easier if you have something to drink," he told him. "Of course, if you'd rather break your fast with your father's party—"

"No, I think there'll be plenty of time for southern comforts once we reach the capital, Lord Jorah," Jon replied. "I had best enjoy the North and her charms while I still can." Jorah laughed at that.

"Considering we're almost out of the North now, Your Grace, I suppose I can't blame you," he said. "We should pass by Moat Cailin today." Jorah motioned for Jon to follow him to the small fire where the rest of the fellowship was seated. The Smalljon seemed to be much like his father, already boasting about something as he took a swig of what Jon assumed was ale from his mug. Domeric Bolton must have just put himself together for the morning, and would have seemed to be listening intently were it not for the disinterested look in his eyes. Eddard Karstark sat sharpening his axe and occasionally grunting in assent whenever the Smalljon made said something that didn't sound too outlandish. Ser Martyn Cassel was there as well, named for his father who died at the Tower of Joy.  _Who had died protecting me._  He had been part of the group of Stark men Lord Eddard had sent south. Jon bowed his head respectfully when he saw him. Words could not hope to repay the debt he owed Ser Martyn for what his father had done. Jon sat beside Ser Martyn, who seemed willing enough to make a space for him, and decided he would try to join the conversation.

"Ser Martyn, I hear we'll be passing by Moat Cailin today. Are you looking forward to seeing your cousin?"

"Aye, Jory's been too long in the swamps, I think. Last letter I received said he had caught some sort of illness, but that some crannogmen healers gave him a brew that seemed to be working."

"I'm not surprised," Domeric said. "I've heard living in such bad airs has forced them to learn much about the body, more even than the maesters. They know every plant in the Neck that can save a man's life…and every one that can end it."

"Bah! Poison is a woman's weapon!" roared the Smalljon. "It's no wonder you never see the crannogmen on the field of battle!"

"My…uncle said winning battles doesn't win you the war," Jon added. "And with the crannogmen he was right. The Freys lost a third of their strength in the Neck when they tried to push up the Causeway, and the crannogmen never met them in battle once."

"A move as foolhardy as turning on our fathers at the Trident was clever," said the Smalljon. "Not that those losses mean much to the Freys. They say Lord Walder is the only man who could field an entire army out of his breeches."

"At his age it's a miracle he can even do that!" declared Eddard Karstark. The rest of the fellowship shared a laugh in agreement.

"Lord Mormont, will the South hold any memories for you?" Domeric Bolton asked as he turned his attention to the Young Bear. "I've heard you won great glory in King Balon's War."

"Only because that fool Victarion Greyjoy wore full plate on the open seas!" Jon Umber burst in. "All Jorah had to do was push him overboard and he died drowning!"

"Had you ever been boarded by Ironmen you would know causing one to lose his footing on the deck of a ship is no easy task." Jorah retorted. "And it's not as if I let the sea do all the work. Longclaw gave him a few good scratches before it came to all that." Lord Mormont patted the hilt of the Valyrian steel bastard sword at his side. The sword of House Mormont, it was a magnificent weapon with the head of a bear as the pommel. Jon could not help but notice how the entire fellowship eyed it jealously.

"Still, it's not like what I did there will be remembered," Jorah went on. "They don't sing songs about you unless you're as pretty as the Kingslayer."

"You killed one bloody Greyjoy, Mormont!" chided Eddard Karstark. "It's not like you hacked your way through the garrison at Pyke and cut King Balon to pieces!"

"I think I'll take a little less glory if it means keeping both hands!"

"Lord Eddard told me stories about the Siege of Pyke," Jon said coldly. "He said Jaime Lannister fought like a man possessed. He and the rest of the besiegers were never less than ten paces behind him. By the time he got to the Seastone Chair he said he saw Ser Jaime seated on it in front of King Balon's body. Not that he could tell it was King Balon at first."

"That's war, Your Grace," Jorah spoke simply. "Especially when men fight with something to prove like Ser Jaime did. They say failing to protect Princess Elia weighed heavily on him after the Lannisters took hold of King's Landing."

"He couldn't save the Mad King from himself either, I've heard!" added Martyn Cassel. "No wonder he was the first man discharged from the Kingsguard. He was a lot better at killing kings than he was at keeping them safe!"

"They say he rules the Ironborn well now," said Domeric. "Or at least my father does. I'm told he keeps peaceful land and a quiet people." Jon shuddered at this.

"You know, Ser Martyn, it may not be wise to get into the habit of criticizing the Queen's brother and the son of the King's Hand," the heir to the Dreadfort continued. "The Lord Protector of the Iron Islands lost his left hand, not his right. Who knows, mayhaps he'll catch wind of our talk and come out from Pyke to skewer us." If this was meant as a joke, no one was laughing.

"I think my namesake your uncle had the right of it, Your Grace." Eddard Karstark. "Punish the Greyjoys for killing our men, and then be done with it."

"Losing a father was hard enough, I'm just glad your uncle avenged the death of mine own," Ser Martyn told Jon.

"Aye, Ser Rodrik was a good man," said Jorah. "He would have made a good castellan of the Westhold."

"To Ser Rodrik!" Jon lifted his mug up high, and was pleased to see the rest of the fellowship do the same. "To every man of House Cassel that fought and died for the North! May their sacrifices never be forgotten!" All drank deeply at that, and Jon was pleased to see a look of respect from Ser Martyn.

"Jaehaerys!" all turned and looked to see the King riding towards them upon his black destrier. Gone was the plate he had worn when he left Winterfell. Instead, Rhaegar wore what had to be some of the most ornate riding leathers Jon had ever seen, died black and red with three-headed dragons stitched into them. The King's pale blonde hair flew in the wind, almost obscuring his handsome features. As Rhaegar pushed a few strands out of his face, Jon was surprised to see that even this far south the King seemed to be ill-suited to the cold. While he was not shivering his lips were still a faint shade of blue.

"Are your men ready to depart?"

"Yes, Your Grace," Jon answered.

"Then let us be off," Rhaegar said, flashing a rare but charming smile. "I go not a day without my wife's complaining, but I think I will be glad to hear the end of her thoughts on travel." Eddard Karstark snorted in amusement at this, and the rest of Jon's fellowship got up and made for their horses.

"When you are mounted, come find me at the head of the procession," the King told Jon. "We have much to discuss." Jon finished his second roll and took a swig from his mug to wash it down before climbing on to his horse. Jorah rode up beside him and gave him a quizzical look.

"I take it you won't be riding with the men today, Your Grace?"

"As much as I'd like to, Lord Jorah, the King has summoned me to ride alongside him."

"A great honor, riding beside a King."

"I'll rejoin the men when His Grace and I are done talking," Jon said. "Shouldn't take that long, we usually don't have much to say to one another." With that Jon tried to smile and took off towards the head of the procession. He looked for Ghost and saw that the dire wolf had already begun to look for the day's game.  _Good hunting_ , he thought _._  It did not take long for him to catch up to the King. For all Rhaegar's talk of readying the Northmen it was many of the southerners who lagged behind. As he passed the Queen's wheelhouse, he could have sworn he saw an angry glare through one of the windows, though he could only guess to whom it belonged. Finally he saw the King, who was near the front of the procession alongside Ser Barristan.

"Your Grace," Jon greeted the King deferentially as his horse trotted up next to his.

"Ser Barristan, keep your distance," Rhaegar ordered. "This is not for you to hear." The old knight bowed in the saddle before slowing his horse, allowing Jon and the King to continue riding in relative isolation.

"Where is the wolf?" the King asked. Jon shrugged before responding.

"Nearby, Your Grace. He'll be back when we stop for rest."

"And how do you know this?"

"I just know, Your Grace. Ghost and I…we have an understanding."

"I see." The King was clearly intrigued. "Tell me, do you ever dream of Ghost? Do you ever dream of walking about in his skin?" The question caught Jon off guard. He had had dreams like that before, but he didn't understand how it could be that Rhaegar was aware of them.

"I suppose I have, Your Grace."

"And how vivid are these dreams? Can you remember scents from them? Can you remember taste?" Jon was beginning to find himself unnerved.

"I…suppose so, Your Grace." The King smiled warmly at him, as though he had just received some piece of good news.

"Thank you for indulging my curiosity, Jaehaerys. I had been reading a book about the close ties some men can form with their pets, and I wanted to see if the maester who wrote it was truly knowledgeable on the subject."

"Was he?" Jon asked.

"Decidedly not. But there are other matters we must discuss."

"And what would those be, Your Grace?"

"Those of your seat and betrothal. I think somewhere in the North would be fitting for the former, don't you agree?" Jon nodded.

"Would I be one of Robb's bannerman, then?"

"No, I would not subject you to such an indignity. Your lands and titles would be like that of the Prince of Summerhall of old. Your uncle seems determined to raise castles along the coast, and I think he can be prevailed upon to grant one to you."  _Those castles are being built to keep Targaryens out_ , thought Jon.

"So I'm to be the Prince of Winterhall, Your Grace?" Jon flashed a smile he knew was not as winning as the King's could be. Rhaegar recognized the jape and chuckled musically.

"A fine title. You may jest now but one day I might bestow it on you." For some reason the melancholy with which Jon had come to associate the King had crept back into his voice.

"As for your betrothed," the King continued, "my Master of Laws has sent his daughter to court to wait upon your sister Rhaenys. No doubt he hopes she will catch Aegon's eye. But that match is not to be. Aegon and Rhaenys are for each other. Instead it is you who will wed Margaery Tyrell." Jon knew the name Tyrell from his studies with Maester Luwin. They were the Lords of the Reach, the richest and most bountiful of the Seven Kingdoms. Supposedly they were so proud of their harvests their very sigil was a plant of some kind. It was a better match than he had ever dreamed of.

"Would a southern lady like Margaery Tyrell really want to live in the North, Your Grace? Lady Catelyn always said an unhappy marriage is a poor foundation for an alliance." Rhaegar snorted at this.

"Yes, I have heard her say that before. But the North is not without its charms, Jaehaerys, and I am sure you can make her see that. Winter roses were your mother's favorite; no doubt the Lady Margaery will grow fond of them as well." At the mention of his mother a shadow seemed to pass over the two men, and they both hung their heads in silence. Rhaegar exhaled before turning back to Jon.

"Have you thought what you might take as your sigil? As a personal coat of arms?" Jon shook his head.

"I haven't given it much thought, Your Grace."

"I was thinking a grey dragon upon a white field. The Targaryen sigil in the colors of House Stark. Does that not sound appealing?"

"I can see the appeal, Your Grace," Jon said meekly.

"But you are not convinced. Perhaps you have another suggestion, then?"

"A white wolf on black," Jon told the King, "with eyes of red." Rhaegar nodded sagely.

"You have time to make up your mind. Though I will have the dragon prepared for you."

"Will that be all, Your Grace?" Truthfully Jon was eager to leave the King's presence. He found himself missing the conversation with men he understood, where every word and gesture didn't feel like it had the weight of Seven Kingdoms resting on it.

"I think your Northern friends can wait, Jaehaerys," Rhaegar told him. "We have arrived." Jon looked up and saw Moat Cailin standing defiantly in the distance. The greatest fortress in the North after Winterfell, Lord Eddard had committed himself to rebuilding it after the Rebellion. Jon had been told that when his uncle had started, only three towers had remained from an ancient fortress raised by the First Men, and that none of them had been in good condition. He could still see which ones they were, for they still listed a bit despite the construction which had gone on around them and as he got closer he saw that the stone of which they were composed was more worn. But now twelve more towers had risen up to join them, and a great basalt curtain wall was once again being built around those. It was still smaller than the ancient fort had been, but from what Jon understood the three towers on their own had been enough to hold off an assault when fully manned. This new castle would be nigh impregnable. Supposedly there was even a smaller holdfast being constructed at the source of the Fever River to the West, to prevent any attempt to flank the castle itself. As a boy he had dreamed of being a lord here, of driving off Southron assaults in the name of his father, the Lord of Winterfell. Such dreams seemed even more foolish now than they had then. Jon did not think Lord Eddard would have granted such an important post to his bastard, and he was even less likely to grant it to the son of the man whose armies he wished to keep out.

The royal party decided to stop and rest outside the walls after the Queen complained that there was still too much construction going on inside. Jon and his fellowship were the exception, however, as they entered the busy fortress to greet Ser Martyn's cousin Jory. As they passed through Moat Cailin's main gate, Jon could see the small army of masons and craftsmen hard at work. Ser Jory Cassel received them in what was now the main hall, which though not ornate was large enough to accommodate a party as large as the King's. Ser Jory had already started his meal when they arrived, but rose to greet them, pulling his cousin into a warm embrace and clasping hands with every one of the Northmen who had joined the royal party at Winterfell. Finally, he turned to Jon.

"You Grace," he said politely.

"Jory, you've known me since I was a boy, you needn't stand on ceremony." This seemed to relax Jory a bit. "Please, call me Jon."

"As you wish, lad, though if I may speak plainly things would have been simpler had you remained Ned Stark's bastard." Jon winced at the mention of his bastardy but was able to come out with a smile.

"A few weeks on the road and I think I'm starting to agree with you." Once greetings and pleasantries were exchanged, Jory offered Jon and his fellowship some bowls of stew. Jon thanked him for it and spooned a mouthful to his lips, savoring the warmth of the broth and the taste of the meat and vegetables.  _Not as good as raw hare_ , he thought. Conversation soon turned to his talk with the King, and Jon told those around him everything he and Rhaegar had discussed. Well, almost everything. For some reason he felt uncomfortable repeating the King's questions about Ghost.

"I may be a bit biased, Your Grace," the Smalljon said. "But when it comes to a sigil, I think men would be more willing to follow a white wolf than a grey wyrm."

"Grey wyrm? Who would allow themselves to be called something like that?!" Eddard Karstark roared in laughter.

"Perhaps someone who wishes to unnerve his enemies," suggested Domeric.

"You would expect the son of the leech lord to say something like that," japed the Smalljon.

"What I don't understand is why Rhaegar wants to marry you to the Tyrell girl," Jorah mused. "If you're going to come back North, then you need a Northern bride."

"I suppose you're looking for a taker for Dacey?" Eddard Karstark flashed Jorah a lewd grin. "It's not a bad match, Your Grace. I've heard she-bears know how to keep a man warm at night."

"Careful Karstark, it's not wise to cross the only man here with a Valyrian blade," Jorah patted Longclaw and smiled back at Eddard. Jon was glad they were only joking.

"You have to marry Margaery because the King won't let Aegon," speculated Domeric. "He needs the continued support of the Great Houses that helped him win the Rebellion, and marriages are often how that support is retained. But as long as he insists on a betrothal of Rhaenys and Aegon his choices are limited. You'll have to take a southern wife, and it may be for the best that it's Margaery Tyrell. The King could always send you to Dorne to wed Arianne Martell, but she would probably strangle you during the bedding." Jon rose to his feet. Something was wrong.

"I meant no offense, Your Grace," Domeric apologized. "From what I've heard, the Lady Margaery is a great beauty."

"Peace, Domeric, it isn't that," Jon told him. "Lord Jorah, follow me. I think I'll need a man with Valyrian steel at my side." Jorah nodded and followed him as he took off towards the disturbance. He could feel anger, fear, and confusion welling up inside him. The urge to snarl. He just hoped he wasn't too late.


	7. VII. The Prince of Winterhall (Part II)

**The Prince of Winterhall (Part II)  
**

Jon and Jorah ran out of the main hall, past the workers and stonemasons who stopped to look at the source of the commotion. They ran out through Moat Cailin's southern gate, just big enough for a man to pass through. Jon instinctively turned and headed in the direction of the Neck, Jorah in tow. Finally he saw what he had feared. Ghost was snarling at a cowering Daeron, who stood beside Ser Barristan. The knight himself had a sword out, cautiously pointing it toward the dire wolf. Baelor and Visenya were standing off to the side, with little Baelor noticeably crying. Jon felt anger and confusion rush over him as he looked at the scene, as though he could not understand why there was danger. He stared intently at Ghost. The wolf stared back at him and a feeling of relief seemed to wash over them both. Jorah turned to Barristan, hand on the hilt of Longclaw, drawing it just enough that the steel could be seen glinting in the midday sun.

"Step away from the wolf, Ser, he poses no threat to the boy." Ghost had already padded over silently to where Jon stood and sat down beside him. Ser Barristan had seemed conflicted before, but now that Ghost sat beside another prince he looked genuinely confused as to what to do.

"Kill the beast, Ser Barristan! I command it!" Daeron barked. "You're a better swordsman than this savage, you're a Knight of the Kingsguard!"

"You've done your duty, Ser. The prince is safe," Jorah reminded the old knight. "Besides, isn't Prince Jon's wolf under royal protection?" Ser Barristan nodded sagely at that and sheathed his blade.

"But he bit me!" whined Daeron.

"Only because you hit us for playing with him!" Visenya shouted back. Daeron gave her an angry glare and stormed off.

"Father will hear about this!" he shouted before turning to Jon. "As will my mother, the Queen." Ghost snarled again and Jon was ready to fall upon Daeron, but Jorah placed a hand upon his shoulder and both the boy and the wolf calmed down. Visenya took Baelor by the hand and walked over to Jon.

"It really was all Daeron's fault," she whispered to Jon before looking at Ghost. "He's really a good doggie. He was nice to me and Baelor." Jon nodded and smiled warmly at his half-sister. Ghost returned an affectionate gaze.

"Thank you, Your Grace" he said.

"You don't have to call me that, Jae! You're a prince!" Jon suppressed the urge to chuckle.  _If only it were that simple_. He bowed politely and took his leave of Ser Barristan and the children, returning with Jorah to his own party. He barely had time to tell them what had happened before a page approached them in the livery of House Targaryen.

"I'm here to inform His Grace that he is to attend a meeting held by the King and Queen to ascertain the truth of an accusation," he stated flatly. Jon groaned, before rising to his feet. He cast a weary glance towards his fellowship.

"Time to answer for my crimes," he said sarcastically. Eddard Karstark snorted at this.

"If I may speak freely, Your Grace, I think we should all come with you," Domeric suggested. "Prince Daeron and his Lannister family should be reminded that they are still in the North." Jon nodded in agreement before turning to Jory Cassel.

"Ser Jory, as our host, would you care to join us as well?" The castellan of Moat Cailin smiled at that.

"With pleasure, Jon." The entire entourage left the main hall and made their way to the large pavilion that had been erected so that the Rhaegar could hold a kind of court even while on the road. The Targaryen guard who stood in front of the entrance flaps was hesitant to allow so many Northmen entrance, but after exchanging a reassuring glance with Jorah, Jon stared intently at the man, reminding him of his status.

"You should stand aside, Ser," he said. "I think the King wants this matter resolved quickly. I don't think he would be pleased if he found out you were delaying my arrival." The guard begrudgingly stepped out of the way of Jon and his party and they all spilled into the pavilion. Rhaegar and his wife sat on a raised dais, surrounded by various onlookers and hangers on who parted to allow Jon to approach the King. The crowd murmured at the sight of Ghost, who moved silently alongside his master, red eyes fixed on Rhaegar. Daeron stood beside his mother, pretending to wince while a maester fawned over his wound. A short, unassuming man in the simple clothing of the crannogmen stood at the ready with what appeared to be a poultice of some kind, shaking his head wearily at the sight.  _No doubt he has a better remedy_ , thought Jon. He looked the King, who regarded him with a passive, unreadable expression. Rhaegar had always seemed fond of Ghost, or at least intrigued enough to keep something from happening to him, but in that moment, surrounded by courtiers and sitting beside his wife, who had placed a hand on his and looked every bit a queen, Jon wasn't sure whose side he would be on. He drew strength from Ghost, who seemed unfazed by the situation. Jon was just glad one of them wasn't nervous.

"You see, my love? The Northmen know only force. You ask them to speak to the truth of a simple matter and they come armed and ready for war," Cersei said disdainfully.

"My friends just happened to carry weapons, as do many travelers on the road, Your Grace," Jon replied, summoning courage he didn't realize he had. He thought for a moment before continuing. "Is that the right title, Your Grace? I'm just a lad from the North with no knowledge of courtly matters. Tell me, what does Prince Aegon call you?" Murmurs and at least one gasp could be heard throughout the crowd. Cersei, to her credit, kept her composure.

"'Your Grace' or 'My Queen' will do," she said. Looking to Daeron, she smiled sweetly before continuing.

"Go on, my prince, tell us what happened." Daeron stood up, feigning another wince as the crannogman rolled his eyes. He told those assembled about how he had simply been walking alongside the castle walls when he saw a savage beast attacking his siblings. He had rushed to their defense, but the monster had still bitten him. Ser Barristan was able to keep the creature at bay until Jon (Daeron noticeably refused to call him anything that would suggest a connection to House Targaryen) had come and as if by some dark magic called the wolf to heel. Jon gritted his teeth at this. He didn't know what was more infuriating, that Daeron was lying or that he might get away with it.

"As I told you, my love. A savage beast has no place in the royal party," Cersei pronounced, staring superciliously at Jon. "The beast must be put out of its misery before it can do your children any more harm." More than the Queen's he felt Ghost's eyes on him. There was an expectation there, a demand that he defend the wolf in a situation beyond its understanding. It was oddly empowering.

"Savage beasts?" he asked. "I may not know as much family history as my younger brother, but did our family not once tame dragons?" Rhaegar's interest seemed piqued by this.

"Ser Barristan, can you confirm Prince Daeron's tale?" asked the King. The old knight shook his head.

"I only arrived in time to see the Prince call for aid, Your Grace. Besides, I do not believe it my place to become involved in this dispute." This response seemed to displease Rhaegar greatly, so he turned to Jon.

"Tell it true, Jaehaerys. When you arrived on the scene, how was the wolf behaving? Could you tell how it felt?" The Queen looked confused by this next question, as did Daeron.

"He was confused and angry, Your Grace," Jon told him. "He didn't understand why Ser Barristan was threatening him." Rhaegar seemed to allow himself a small smile.

"My love, you cannot take a child's opinion on his pet over the account of your own son!" As the King pursed his lips in frustration Jon realized the Queen had misplayed her hand.  _I'm his son too_.

"You needn't do so, Your Grace," Jon interjected. "You could ask your daughter what happened. She tells it differently than Prince Daeron." Rhaegar raised an eyebrow at this and looked to Ser Barristan, who nodded before he could be asked the question. Rhaegar then faced the Queen with an exasperated look upon his face.

"Yes, where is my daughter, my love? I find it curious she is not here despite her involvement in this episode." Cersei bit her lip while she thought of a response. It didn't take long.

"Visenya is but a child. She was so traumatized by the experience I thought it best to spare her the horror of reliving it." The King looked at her incredulously.

"That sounds not at all like my little warrior. Send for her." A page quickly ducked out of the pavilion and returned in short order with the princess in tow. The little girl looked at Daeron defiantly and flashed a kind smile at Jon. When put to the question by the King she relayed the truth of the mater, much to her brother's and mother's frustration.

"Please don't hurt him, father. He was just defending us from Daeron," she pleaded. "Ghost is good! I swear!" Rhaegar almost seemed to laugh.

"A brave girl," he said. "It seems I named you well."

"But the wolf savaged your son, My King! Surely it must be dealt with!" Cersei seemed determined to salvage something from the situation.

"Maester, how serious is the wound?" At this point it was clear that the King was tiring of the situation.

"Not serious at all, Your Grace," replied the maester. The crannogman nodded, finally agreeing with the royal healer on something.

"Then it seems no harm was done," said Rhaegar with an air of finality. "Jaehaerys." Jon almost jumped at the King's command.

"You are forbidden from allowing the wolf near Baelor and Visenya." The King paused for a moment to look Ghost in the eyes. The wolf also seemed to shrink from his gaze. "You will chain it or cage it when necessary and when I order it. Is that understood?" Jon nodded in disappointment.

"Yes, Your Grace."

"And as for you, Daeron, you are forbidden from being near the wolf. I had promised that the creature would be under royal protection. If you cannot prevent yourself from provoking its wrath then you cannot be trusted to be in its presence. We will speak later about your punishment for striking your siblings." The King rose and strode out, waving for the rest of the onlookers to disperse. The Queen and Daeron both shot Jon a murderous glare before departing. Visenya curtsied in his direction and blew a kiss goodbye to Ghost. As everyone but his own fellowship wandered out, he saw the crannogman had remained. Jon walked over to him.

"I take it my half-brother didn't want your services?" he asked the shorter man, finally taking the time to appraise him. The crannogman was dressed in green clothing that fully covered his arms and legs. He was thin of frame and of face, with mud brown hair and a wispy beard that was nonetheless cropped close. His hair also had flecks of grey, which led Jon to suspect he was around the same age as Lord Eddard. The crannogman looked at Jon with warm, deep green eyes and smiled upon seeing him.

"It is good to see you, Your Grace," the man said. "You may call me Jonnel Fenn. As to your question, I'm afraid the young Prince doesn't realize the dangers of the Neck. The cut is small, but it needs to be cleaned better lest it begin to fester."

"I've heard of House Fenn," Jon answered. "You're sworn to the Reeds, are you not?"

"Indeed we are, Your Grace, for it was Lord Reed who sent me to you. He believes you shall need the company of a crannogman during your time in the South."

"To do what? Catch him frogs to eat?" laughed the Smalljon.

"I think you will find my people can be far more useful than that," replied Jonnel quietly. He seemed to project an air of knowledge and confidence that Jon found reassuring.

"Lord Reed has done much for my family," Jon said melancholically as he recalled what he had been told of the Tower of Joy. "It would be dishonorable to refuse his offer." This seemed to make the crannogman smile.

"Lord Fenn, perhaps the first thing you should do while in our company is treat Prince Daeron's wounds," mused Domeric Bolton.

"Should I say you have sent me, Your Grace?" the crannogman asked.

"I do not think that would be wise," Domeric went on softly. "Best to say you come simply out of a desire to serve the prince, and warn him of the dangers of festering wounds in the Neck. This may make him talkative, and it would be a good thing to know what he has on his mind." Jon caught the heir to the Dreadfort's meaning and nodded at the Fenn, who took his poultice and prepared to leave. Before he did, he turned to Jon once more.

"You will not regret taking me into your service, Your Grace," he said, green eyes gleaming. "There is much you will need to know, and much I can show you."


	8. VIII. Cersei

**Cersei**

She hadn't expected him to come to her tonight. But he had. Her husband opened the flap to her tent and strode in confidently, wearing nothing but his boots, riding pants, and a loose silk shirt that was partially undone, revealing his smooth, muscular chest. His amethyst eyes regarded her hungrily, but truth be told she wasn't in the mood. It wasn't that he wasn't skilled, Cersei knew she was hardly the first woman he had bedded, but after putting a bastard ahead of her son in the succession and shaming her in front of the entire royal party she didn't understand how he expected her to be willing. Perhaps she would think of Jaime again, like she had on her wedding night.

Memories of that near-disaster did manage to bring a smile to her face. Rhaegar had been good, but that hadn't stopped her from crying out her brother's name as she finished. She could remember the fear that had gripped her as her new husband had rolled off of her and looked at her with a confused expression. Then, the man who had been so somber in the wake of the capture of King's Landing and the death of his wife and father had laughed.

"It seems your father was right," he had said drolly. "You were made for a royal marriage." But that had been then. Now, she allowed him to wrap his arms around her as she prepared to do her duty, letting him lay kisses along her neck that she might have enjoyed had she not been furious with him.

"You do not wish it?" he asked, whispering softly in her ear.

"Far be it from me to keep my lord husband from claiming his rights," she responded coldly.

"But you would, if you could." A statement of fact. He released her slowly and watched as she sauntered over to the bed, swaying her hips as she did so. She did not want him that night, but now that he was not pressing the issue she thought she might enjoy making him suffer.

"I'm surprised you did not wish to pass the evening with your blue mistress, my love." Cersei allowed a bit of disdain to creep into her voice. Her husband's love of music and poetry were things they could share, but some of his hobbies she simply could not understand, even if they held a morbid fascination for her.

"I wish you would not call it that. The shade of the evening shows me what problems  _might_  arise." Rhaegar sighed, his despondent gaze resting upon her. "I do not need it to see the difficulties I face in the here and now." Cersei allowed herself an unladylike snort. 'Difficulties' was an understatement.

"You shamed your trueborn son in front of everyone today!" she snapped at him. "Daeron may someday rule. How do you expect him to do so if he is not respected by his most unruly vassals?!"

"Daeron is third in line," he reminded her.

"When he should be second! Do you really think that bastard of yours will ever sit the Iron Throne? I doubt even the Northmen would support him!" Rhaegar closed the gap between them in an instant, raising a hand as if to strike her. She flinched, waiting for the impact, but it never came. He lowered his hand slowly and gave her a resigned look.

"In that, you are not wrong," he admitted. "Jaehaerys will never be King."

"Then why put him in such a position?" Cersei had gained the advantage, a rare enough thing in arguments with her husband, and she did not intend to lose it. "Why destabilize the Realm by according him so many honors he has no right to?" As soon as those words left her lips the fire returned to his eyes.  _Very well, let him be angry_ , Cersei thought. _After all I've suffered it's far better than he deserves_.

"Because his being here, with us, may mean that the Realm is saved from What is to Come."

"Prophecy?! You would decide the fate of all Seven Kingdoms according to something you saw in some fever dream or read in some ancient scroll?!"

"When interpreted carefully, it has proven itself to be useful. Had I not heeded the Higher Mysteries, the Realm would have been run into the ground by a drunken lout."

"Had you not heeded the Higher Mysteries, that lout would have never taken up arms against you!"

"I will not apologize for doing what was necessary. And can you really complain?" He arched an eyebrow at her. "Your family has benefited greatly."

"My family was given what it should have received under your father for years of leal service!"

"A mistake that might never have been corrected had I not taken shade of the evening before I left to face Robert. Since then things have gone well. Your father and I have given the Realm good years, and the North is well prepared."

"The North is well prepared?! You say that like it's a good thing!" Rhaegar gave her that look she hated, the one laden with condescension, as if all his talk of prophecy and Higher Mysteries was something she could never hope to comprehend.

"How can you doubt something when you have seen its power?" he asked, clearly losing his patience. "The maegi you saw as a girl spoke truly. Did you not wed the King instead of the Prince?" There were times she had regretted telling him of Maggy the Frog, of the future the woods witch had laid out for her after tasting her blood at Lannisport. But it had been early in their marriage, and she had been so alone in King's Landing. The man she had been infatuated with as a child had become her husband, and unlike her father and brother he had listened to her when the fear of the valonqar had gripped her again.

"You're ten children short of fulfilling  _that one_ , my love," she hissed.

"What a comfort that must be to your friend Melara." She slapped him. Hard. He smiled back at her. He had won this round. She had broken first.

"Have you ever considered you might have misinterpreted what you see?" she said carefully, trying to save face. "That it may be half true, as Maggy's words were for me? We have three children, Rhaegar, why could they not be the three heads of the dragon? Why does it have to be Aegon and…Jaehaerys?" From what she understood, the boy hated that name. So did she, albeit for different reasons.

"Not in this case. Not with him." His voice was heavy and melancholy, as if the weight of the world rested on what he was about to tell her. Cersei listened, not sure she would like where this was going.

"When Ned Stark hid the boy from me, I thought I had been wrong, that I might have misinterpreted his role in the Song of Ice and Fire. Once I learned the truth, I struggled to understand what it might mean. I consulted everyone and everything: Marwyn, the Red Woman, the archives on Dragonstone, the shade of the evening, my uncle in the far north. All have come to the same conclusion. The boy will die young. This is not some fortune-teller's farce, nor but one song among many. A chorus testifies to Jaehaerys' fate. This is his destiny."

"Then what good is it to bring him to the capital?" Cersei asked, now somewhat intrigued. Without knowing it, her husband had offered her a way to clean up the mess he had created.

"At King's Landing, if he grows to love his family, I may be able to make his death mean something. He may yet help Aegon become the Prince that was Promised." Cersei pursed her lips in frustration. The offer seemed to have been retracted.

"Why are you telling me all this?" she questioned him. "You've never been this open about the future before, not even to that cabal of sorcerers you place so much faith in."

"That is because I have never been this certain before. It is also because I do not want you to interfere. I know what you would like to do to the boy. Know also that I will do everything in my power to prevent it. My eyes and ears extend much farther than yours, my love. Even if you try to make it look like an accident, I will know. I cannot allow you to prevent him from fulfilling his destiny." She didn't bother to hide her frustration at this.

"Promise me you will not try to have him killed."

"I promise." It was a meaningless oath. All she had to do was speak to her father and he would no doubt take care of the rest. Although she had become accustomed to it, there were times she still appreciated not having to lift a finger to get what she wanted.

"I will hold you to that." A long pause followed, Rhaegar made for the flap of the tent as if to leave before stopping and turning towards her.

"I think the maegi's words would have come true in full had you been Robert's queen." Cersei admitted to herself she had thought of what it would have been like had she been married to Robert Baratheon.

"The man's appetites were far less restrained," she conceded. "I would not be surprised if he had fathered thirteen bastards. He might have known better than to legitimize them, though." She was disappointed that her husband seemed unperturbed by the slight. Instead, he gazed at her intently.

"Do you want to see?" The question hung heavily in the air. She knew what he was offering.

"Is that really what I will see?" She said derisively, doing her best to hide her curiosity. "You say the shade of the evening speaks to you of many things at once, and then only in riddles."

"That is when I only wish to see all it might reveal to me. Of the future and of things past for which I was not present it can be vague, but it speaks loudly and clearly of things as they might have been. You have only to focus on them as you drink it, to clear your mind of all else."

"What has it shown you?" she asked. "Of what might have been?"

"My death at the Trident. My family reclaiming the Seven Kingdoms with fire and blood. Winter." He pulled out a small vial of blue liquid from one of his pockets, uncorked it, and offered it to her. It stank of rotting flesh.

"I cannot afford to have you doubt its power any longer," he said. "Too much is at stake. Drink, and see the truth of the maegi's words." In that moment Cersei wanted to push the vial away, to send it flying to the other side of the tent, to tell Rhaegar she would not be party to his madness.

But it called to her. When her father had told her that she would truly wed Rhaegar Targaryen, the only man besides Jaime who could ever be worthy of her, it had seemed like a dream. As the years had marched on, however, Cersei had come to understand that her childhood fantasies of being the Queen had been only that. Rhaegar was solitary, brooding, secretive, and favored his children by his first wife over the ones she had given him. He had made time for her, he had sung for her, and he was a more than capable lover, but Cersei knew deep down he only did those things to appease her, to keep her under control. There was a gulf between them that seemed like it could never be bridged, one that had only widened as time went by. At first she had wondered what she had done wrong, why she wasn't good enough for him, why she had to endure the indignity of being asked time and again by her father why she could never lift her husband's spirits. She had wondered why he needed prophecy, why he needed a Red Woman on Dragonstone when he had a golden one in his bed. It had taken years before she had been able to convince herself that Rhaegar had simply failed to appreciate her. It was all this that made the shade of the evening and its secrets so alluring. Perhaps Robert would have been different. Perhaps after a night together he would have never looked at another woman. Perhaps she would have been happy. Cersei took the vial from Rhaegar and slowly placed it to her lips, trying not to gag at the stench. Rhaegar placed a hand on hers.

"Clear your mind of all but that which you wish to know," he advised her gently. "I will be here should something go wrong." She tried not to think about that as she downed the vial quickly. It tasted as horrible as she expected at first, but soon reminded her of everything she had ever tasted, along with a few sensations that were new to her. She looked to Rhaegar. His long, silver blonde hair seemed to be shortening and changing color, becoming golden like her own. His loose shirt was replaced with white armor and a white cloak, and his features, though handsome, seemed to also become younger, more like those of a man she had not seen in ages.

"Jaime," whispered, putting a hand to her brother's cheek. "Jaime, my love, I've missed you." She laid back down on the bed and allowed Jaime on top of her, feeling more complete than she had in ages. He gripped her shoulders gently, and she closed her eyes as she prepared for him to enter her. Suddenly his grip on her shoulders tightened, then loosened as his hands slid clumsily about her body. She looked with horror to see her brother shed his armor, to be replaced by corded muscle and thick, dark hair.  _Robert Baratheon_. The man's breath reeked of wine, and he seemed to pay her no mind as he was consumed by his own agony and ecstasy.

"Lyanna!" he gasped, tears rolling down his face. She was filled with hatred then, hatred more powerful than she had ever known. Hatred for the man she knew was her husband and the  _thing_  growing inside her that was of his making. She found herself scrambling up from under him, reaching for a glass offered to her by an old woman in plainclothes. She drank it hastily, loathing the taste but forcing herself to finish it to the last drop.

She turned back to the bed where the oaf had been, only to see in its place three blonde children with golden crowns upon their heads, two boys and a girl smiling back at her. She walked over to them slowly, but they bounded towards her, each one enveloping her in a warm embrace. She raised her head to see Jaime watching from a distance, still in the armor of the Kingsguard, his eyes filled with a sadness she couldn't understand. She looked to the eldest child, a boy no younger than twelve, and then back to her brother. The resemblance was uncanny. Cersei wanted to thank him, to tell him how grateful she was for the three miracles in front of her, when her hands began to feel wet.

She looked at them and saw they were covered in blood. The eldest, her eldest, was dying in front of her. Blood came pouring from every orifice as his face became puffy and purple. She wanted to scream. Jaime stood there, powerless to stop it. Tyrion laughed cruelly. The severed head of Ned Stark laughed cruelly from atop a spike; Stannis Baratheon and a boy with the head of a wolf joined them. Cersei dropped her son's corpse only to see a horrific gash spread across the girl's, no, her daughter's face. The youngest boy was taken by the hand by beautiful young brunette. She led him away into a raging inferno. She cried out his name until she was hoarse, but she knew he could not hear her. She was being drowned out by repeated chants of "shame, shame, shame." She sunk to her knees, naked and shorn of all her hair, covering her ears to block out the chants, before rising to her feet in defiance, with nothing but anger and hatred left to her.

The horrible blaze that had consumed her youngest boy began to spread, consuming everything around her. A fearsome girl with the Targaryen look stepped through it, regarding her as a dragon might regard its prey. Daenerys Targaryen, first of her name, saw Cersei as nothing more than a piece of meat to be devoured, an obstacle on her way to fire and glory. Through the haze of the flames a massive dark figure could be seen. Cersei scrambled backwards, but it approached too quickly for her to escape and soon the flames were at her back. Daenerys smiled cruelly as a gigantic three-headed dragon emerged from the inferno, opening its maws to reveal rows of blood-drenched fangs. It shook the very ground with its roar and let loose a torrent of wildfire from its mouth. Stannis Baratheon laughed at the irony.

In an instant the flames were extinguished and she saw only darkness. She felt cold, colder than she ever had in her life. Someone was approaching, a pale figure with eyes shining blue. By the light that seemed to filter through them she looked down at her feet to see three golden shrouds covering three small corpses. She could not stop herself from crying, even as she was gripped by terror when her children's bodies rose up against her, their eyes now the same pale blue as the approaching figure. It was at that moment she realized who was coming. The valonqar. The little brother, here to take her life. He wrapped golden hands about Cersei's throat as tears streamed down her face.  _No, my love, it can't be you…_

She awoke in a cold sweat. She was still in her tent. Feeling the sun shining down on her through the tent's fabric, she groggily sat up in bed. Rhaegar had taken a seat in a chair nearby, tuning his harp disinterestedly and already dressed for the morning ride. Her clothes were still on. She was relieved to know that some parts of what she had seen had not also taken place in reality.

"It seems you would have lived an interesting life had I fallen at the Trident," Rhaegar mused.

"I do not wish to speak of it," she told him. He nodded in understanding. She was far from forgiving him, but after such an ordeal she now could see why her husband was often so guarded.

"Come," he said, rising from his chair and proceeding out the flap at the entrance of the tent. "The sooner we leave, the sooner we can return home. Remember your promise, Cersei." As soon as he was gone she burst into tears. What she had seen was more horrible than anything she could have ever imagined. She wanted to desperately, but knew she would never be able to convince herself that it was merely a dream. As much as she hated to admit it, Rhaegar had been right. There was power in the Higher Mysteries. But her experience from the previous night had shown her something else. Their power was far from absolute. Her husband had thwarted his fate, and spared her the one she had seen in her vision, the one laid out for her by Maggy the Frog. If she were determined enough, she could still forge her own destiny. There needn't be a valonqar. Daeron could be the Prince that was Promised. And Jaehaerys…no, Jon Snow. Jon Snow could be nothing more than a footnote in history, a minor talking point when learned men spoke with reverence of the reign of Daeron the Great.


End file.
